On busy days, my desk is a random collection of papers and objects. In a rush between receiving trauma patients and bouncing between meetings, I toss things down and plan to deal with them later. The other day, I glanced over and saw a scalpel and a tube of nice lip gloss resting next to each. Random for sure, but also stopped me in my tracks.

It’s not uncommon to find a surgeon with a scalpel in their pocket…at the ready to respond to any surgical emergency, anywhere in the hospital, at any moment: to place a tube in the airway, to open a chest for cardiac massage during a trauma code. It’s rare, but when called upon, we are prepared…all in a day’s work.

Pandemic life has me mostly foregoing my makeup routine, save for a wisp of mascara, as most of the expensive products simply end up coloring the inside of my mask more than being seen anyway. However, before a Zoom meeting, I often swipe on some lip gloss, a quick way to freshen up, putting my best face forward no matter what the day has brought me thus far. And on some days, the moments before the meeting include employing that strategically placed scalpel from my pocket…

While we all say, “we are just doing our job”, the cuts we make are also some of the deepest cuts we take upon our own hearts. I can still remember, in vivid detail, being a senior surgery resident called upon to use my scalpel to incise the neck of a 14-year-old, shot in the face, to place a breathing tube. My blade was his only chance at survival. I placed the tube and silently walked out of the ER, then out of the hospital. A surreal scene with news trucks lining the street to report the story about the boy…I walked to my car, alone, with tears rolling down my cheeks, rattled by the entire situation.

I have cuts from the moments in the quiet room, telling a mother her son is dead after a horrible tragedy. I have cuts from the patient who held out hope and agreed to surgery, only to die hours later in the ICU, because it was worse than we all expected. I have cuts from emerging from the OR, bloodied and having to rush to change my scrubs only to receive another victim of gun violence, and do it all over again.

The global pandemic has laid bare for so many of us in healthcare the deep cuts that we harbor, from difficult cases to the grueling pace of caring for the sickest of the sick. And add on a healthy dose of divisive politics, social unrest, racial tensions, and the ongoing toll of gun violence in America…well, the cuts are deep and many. Too often, we simply put on our proverbial lip gloss and take the next meeting, without processing what we have seen and done or dealt with.

In my own life and work, I have experienced many days of exhilarating joy of saving a life, of connecting deeply with a patient or family, and of bonding with my colleagues. But I have also sensed a growing ache of not fully processing some of the deepest cuts. I have been left anxious and unsettled, and at times, angry and defensive. My faith has been rattled as the church seems to have responded with incongruent messages about the sanctity of life across the spectrums of age, politics, sexual orientation, and color. I’ve become weary…

My job is to support the well-being of learners and healthcare workers. I live and breathe the data that tells me that we are bummed out, burned out, and checking out of healthcare, and painfully, some of us checking out of life at rates much higher than the general population. I champion people seeking help when they need it. And now it’s my turn.

I am taking the time to examine the cuts and process them in a healthy way with a professional that will make me a stronger, better surgeon, and wife, and mother. Thanks to the wisdom and courage of leaders in my own healthcare system, barriers to help-seeking behaviors such as disclosure on credentialing forms, have been shattered. And for that, I am humbled and grateful.

We all have deep cuts. We all have history and stories and moments that have cut us. All of us, in and out of healthcare. And we all grab our lip gloss and smile for the camera, all too often ignoring the cuts. The vulnerability it takes to talk about our cuts is heavy, but oh so necessary. We can heal, but first, we have to acknowledge that which cuts us. We can’t always avoid the cut, but we can find better ways to heal. We can’t change the things outside of our control, but we can change the ways we react…the ways we deal with the deep cuts.

Disclaimer: My viewpoints are not necessarily reflective of my employer, or any local, regional or national organization that I belong to. As a matter of fact, I pretty much just speak for myself. Please keep that in mind.