Spike!

Truly destiny, this. With the finishing line in sight, a well-deserved respite to follow. That then a call from the nurse. Fever. 101. And guess what. She is neutropenic at 180 white count.

This is where pessimism comes into play. When one spends most of his/her life contemplating what one must do in times like this. Of duress, of disappointment, sometimes almost of despair.

Did you want to culture? Nurse Ellen asked. Of course. And I'll run to the lab for fungal culture. I called the resident. Both of us trying to mask the frustration that was understood in both of us. It wasn't hard, I imagine. You cannot survive being a resident long, always hoping for a surprise-free day.

So looking at 2 hours more than I expected. But this was what I expected. Perhaps I would have felt wary had there been nothing of the sort. That there was an overcast sky, and I didn't know when the rain would strike. And so it had, today. Not at Katrina level. More like Ithaca weather. I mean, I needed to learn this any way, this massive attack we call the sepsis workup, so often of which turn out to be something akin to a search for mythical WMDs.

But somehow, I felt better walking out today. Better today than I had felt all of last week, sitting in my apartment with nothing to do. I felt useful. Contributory. In a strange way, it was a good day. Because in this career I am, and need to continue to be, the eternal pessimist.