“You poor thing,” said my occupational therapist, a woman in her sixties. Dark brown hair. No makeup. Naturally vibrant. “You didn’t even get to use all those years of school, all that investment of time and money?”
She kept cutting straps for my splint, shaking her head. I’d just shared my life story because I find it impossible not to share my life story with any therapist, occupational, physical, psychoanalytic, or otherwise.
“Well, I did work for two months,” I said, fending off the pity, penetrating, sappy, tar-like pity.
“Two months? That’s it? That’s really disappointing that you didn’t get to use your experience.” Her tone had finality. I looked down at my left hand. The splint was fit and strapped. Our session was over. “We’ll see you back in two weeks and get that splint off.”
For the rest of the day, Tuesday, I considered her assessment. Have I failed to use my experience? Was it all a waste of time and money?
I’m working on a big project, something I really want. I’ve had to dig deeper and search harder for personal truth. What I’ve found— really, what I’m relying upon and generating from—is a gratitude for medicine. The studying. The professionalism. The patients. The cross-country moves. The friends. The mentors. The choices. The lessons. Without all of it, I wouldn’t have this.
Return on experience is a daily choice, as I’ve come to see it. Either my past owns me, or I can work to understand it, and one day, hopefully, own it outright.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
