The words were like bitter candies that I had been sucking on, hoping to come to a sweet center. I had walked the hallways of the hospital holding them in the silky pocket of my cheek for weeks. Finally, afraid I would choke, I spit them out into the middle of the dinner table.
“I think I’m depressed.”
My career in medicine is something I am proud of. I was the first one in the family to enter the field of medicine, and I have navigated the maze of my medical education and training often blindly, without footsteps to follow. I have built a career in which I am both passionate and successful. From the outside, it is an incredible accomplishment. But it has not been without sacrifice – and those sacrifices have impacted everyone who loves me.
Her name rolled around in my mouth like a smooth marble. It was the kind of name you don’t hear much anymore. Then, I looked at her birthday on her patient information sticker. The year was the nineteen twenties. It made me think back to the days of roaring twenties, flappers and the Great Depression. But in her case, it was real depression that brought her to me.