Yesterday, I changed jobs.
“How long have you been a doctor for?” asked one of my patients last week, sounding suspicious, as I trundled into his room with the blood trolley. “Four months,” I said.
In the medical world, four months means almost time to move on.
I was very sad to say goodbye to my ward. I’ve been well supported, and I’ve had good nurses and wonderful seniors and I’ve learned a lot. I’m told by my colleagues that I’ll have those things in my new department, too, but for now it’s all not knowing where they keep the blood trolley or who refers what to whom or anyone’s name and a new bleep that the battery falls out of every time I go to the loo. It feels a lot like the first day of school. At lunch yesterday I flapped at the new F1 on my old ward and wailed, “Oh my God, I want to come home!”
But it is time to move on.