//A/N: Dedicated to my mum, Happy Mother's Day, ya mad ER fan! xxx Couldn't have done it without you! (PS, apologies for the profanity :P)//
It hurts, but I won't let it hurt. Goddammit, it's got no right to hurt! I'm a surgeon, for God's sake. I need this arm! It makes me so angry! And afraid. It makes me afraid. I'm a surgeon...
And what can I do, if I can't do that?
I've staked my whole life around this job. My whole life *is* this job, and without it I'm nothing. Just another lonely, bitter bald guy with an attitude problem and probably a drinking problem to match.
Why me? Why my arm? Better my damn head and be done with it than my arm! Christ! Its absolutely typical, the one thing I *need*, cannot do without, and its broken. Damaged, most likely beyond repair. If only that was the worst part!
It's the pity I can't stand. I feel it like waves, the pity, and they're all guilty of it. Have I ever in my whole life asked for pity? I have not, but they all seem to expect that I should be some nice guy now, that I should be "grateful for their concern." Well I'm sorry, but its business as usual for me.
At least...it would be, if business as usual didn't require the use of two fully functional arms.
It still hurts. Why in the hell does it feel the need to do that, reminding me every minute of the night that's its there, and that Something's Wrong? It's not enough that the bastard ruins my job and my life, its got to ruin my Goddamn sleep as well. Thank you very much for not even allowing me to pretend that maybe I'm still useful, that maybe I'm not a washed up surgeon who'll never operate again!
These pills don't work. The pain is stronger than the pills, and that scares me. How can anything that hurts like this ever work again? Oh, they tell me I'll get through this, that I've got a seven in whatever-the-fuck chance of regaining full control, that so-and-so from such-and-such did just great, drove his pickup and opened his beer cans just fine and dandy after his operation.
As if I'm that stupid. I know just what my chances are. Maybe I could open a beer can just aces, but surgery? Not a hope in hell.
Maybe I should just quit now, before it becomes too obvious that I'm just not a surgeon anymore. I can't, though. However hardheaded I am or seem to be, there's a part of me that's terrified, and it wants to keep trying. It needs to keep trying.
If, like I know deep down I am, I turn out to be useless...well then. I'll leave. It'll be humiliating, but I'll leave. I'll take on a job somewhere else. I don't know what, but I'll find something.
All I know is that this is my problem, and I'll deal with it on my own. That's the way I'll do it. It's the way I've always done it, alone.
The pain's dying a little, seems those little white capsules are finally doing what I pay them for. Maybe I can sleep now.
Maybe...maybe when I wake up it'll all be okay. Maybe it'll be alright.
Hah, nice dream Robert.
It hurts, but I won't let it hurt. Goddammit, it's got no right to hurt! I'm a surgeon, for God's sake. I need this arm! It makes me so angry! And afraid. It makes me afraid. I'm a surgeon...
And what can I do, if I can't do that?
I've staked my whole life around this job. My whole life *is* this job, and without it I'm nothing. Just another lonely, bitter bald guy with an attitude problem and probably a drinking problem to match.
Why me? Why my arm? Better my damn head and be done with it than my arm! Christ! Its absolutely typical, the one thing I *need*, cannot do without, and its broken. Damaged, most likely beyond repair. If only that was the worst part!
It's the pity I can't stand. I feel it like waves, the pity, and they're all guilty of it. Have I ever in my whole life asked for pity? I have not, but they all seem to expect that I should be some nice guy now, that I should be "grateful for their concern." Well I'm sorry, but its business as usual for me.
At least...it would be, if business as usual didn't require the use of two fully functional arms.
It still hurts. Why in the hell does it feel the need to do that, reminding me every minute of the night that's its there, and that Something's Wrong? It's not enough that the bastard ruins my job and my life, its got to ruin my Goddamn sleep as well. Thank you very much for not even allowing me to pretend that maybe I'm still useful, that maybe I'm not a washed up surgeon who'll never operate again!
These pills don't work. The pain is stronger than the pills, and that scares me. How can anything that hurts like this ever work again? Oh, they tell me I'll get through this, that I've got a seven in whatever-the-fuck chance of regaining full control, that so-and-so from such-and-such did just great, drove his pickup and opened his beer cans just fine and dandy after his operation.
As if I'm that stupid. I know just what my chances are. Maybe I could open a beer can just aces, but surgery? Not a hope in hell.
Maybe I should just quit now, before it becomes too obvious that I'm just not a surgeon anymore. I can't, though. However hardheaded I am or seem to be, there's a part of me that's terrified, and it wants to keep trying. It needs to keep trying.
If, like I know deep down I am, I turn out to be useless...well then. I'll leave. It'll be humiliating, but I'll leave. I'll take on a job somewhere else. I don't know what, but I'll find something.
All I know is that this is my problem, and I'll deal with it on my own. That's the way I'll do it. It's the way I've always done it, alone.
The pain's dying a little, seems those little white capsules are finally doing what I pay them for. Maybe I can sleep now.
Maybe...maybe when I wake up it'll all be okay. Maybe it'll be alright.
Hah, nice dream Robert.
