This Is Going to Hurt: Secret Diaries of a Young Doctor

by Adam Kay

The other thing I realize is that none of her many, many concerns are about herself; it’s all about the kids, her husband, her sister, her friends. Maybe that’s the definition of a good person.

I dress him again, look up to a God I don’t believe in, and say, “Look after him.”

You don’t cure depression, the same way you don’t cure asthma; you manage it. I’m the inhaler he’s decided to go with and I should be pleased he’s gone this long without an attack.

the principal one being a shit-ton of cash every month—but there’s no feeling like knowing you’ve saved a life. Not even that, half the time; just knowing you’ve made a difference is enough. You go home—however tired, late, and blood-spattered—with a spring in your step that’s hard to describe, feeling like you have a useful part to play in the world.

My ID card and salary now proudly said Senior registrar (although in fairness, my salary also said Bank teller or Reasonably experienced milkman), and my next few postings would bridge the gap from junior doctor to consultant.

It’s a system that barely has enough slack to allow for sick leave, let alone something as intangible as recovering from an awful day. And, in truth, doctors can’t acknowledge how devastating these moments really are. If you’re going to survive working in this profession, you have to convince yourself these horrors are just part of your job. You can’t pay any attention to the man behind the curtain—your own sanity relies on it.