Eleven days ago, in the cold quiet of “Twixtmas”, I picked up a pen and began writing. The algorithm gods had (with uncharacteristic wisdom) led me to Beth Kempton’s Winter Writing Sanctuary. And oh, what sanctuary I found. Yes, it was about the writing, but it was so much more than that. It was about finding inspiration in the simplest spark, it was rediscovering joy.
Until six months ago, I was a surgeon. Technically, I suppose, I still am, or at least still could be. In eighteen years of practising medicine, though, I think I lost myself. I’ve always considered identity an enigmatic concept - it’s knotted strands shaping each of us, inimitable yet constantly in flux. I am beginning the process of untangling my particular knots of surgically-tied thread to find out who is underneath and just which wounds need air to heal.
I am so grateful to Beth, and to the incredible people in her community who I have been fortunate enough to share this profound experience with. And so, on this rainy Tuesday, my first post-sanctuary day, I am taking all my new found courage, picking up my pen, and saying hello to a future filled with possibility. I can’t wait to see who, and what, is waiting for me there.
The poem I share below is titled ‘Putting down my scalpel’
If you’re reading this, please say hello in the comments, I’d love to know what you thought. And if you’re just finding my page through this post, I’d be super grateful if you’d sign up so that you’ll receive the essays that are coming very soon. The first will be a ‘letter to my patients’ explaining more about my path to leaving surgery.
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Thanks so much for reading!
Louise x
Since publication of this poem, I’ve added an audio reading, and the letter to my patients series of essays have been published, you can find them here if you’re interested to know more.
Letter to my (former) patients {Part 1}
Nineteen years ago, on a bright spring day – one of those with just a hint of chill in the air so you need a coat, but also wish you’d remembered your sunglasses – I called my Mum from the foyer of the medical school. The wide open space was fizzing with the excited chatter of two hundred-some of my classmates, intermittently quieted by a moment of conc…
If you’re interested to explore more of my work, there is an index available here:
Text only version of Putting down my scalpel:
Putting down my scalpel,
and picking up my pen.
An empty page is waiting -
where to?
what next?
and then? -
to turn away
from eighteen years of
(literal)
blood
and sweat
and tears
(so many tears)
if not a surgeon, who the fuck am I?
Can I reinvent my-
self?
As who, though?
When
all I've ever known
is illness,
injury,
shame,
and love
and loss
and pain.
The drugs don't always
work.
Steel doesn't always
heal.
Sometimes, there is no cure
My knife can't always save
your life.
It did, though.
Many times. These hands
could move and
s t r e t c h and
play -
by daylight - fix your toenail,
by night, keep
death
at bay.
(For now, at least.)
So why leave? Why... waste
all that skill and
stress
and work?!
It takes it's toll.
No, more… stolen, my toll,
by culture, expectations, lack of
resource,
time,
and sleep,
fighting daily fires I no longer have
ability to keep
my own fire
burning, that flame that
burns
with love
for the babies,
for the children,
for my blade,
my gown,
my glove.
Today, I light this candle:
send my flame
out
to the world.
Let the smoke dissolve my anger, let my
broken
heart,
unfurl'd,
collect my withered wintry soul, shake
ashes from my skin.
This heart
will keep
on beating.
These lungs, still breathing
in.
I'm here.
One of the lucky ones.
Alive
to tell the tale:
to spill
words
onto
paper,
and lift
the darkened veil
of this story,
and then
at last
just
be.
Let this ink fall where it will.
Let my words,
and me,
be free.
So brave and profound Louise! Beth's Winter Writing Sanctuary was a lantern to me as well. May your writing journey be all that it needs to be for you and all of us who need to hear your courageous heart!