Content warning: heavy on the feelings, so give yourself space and time and time to process.<\/em><\/p>\n My story starts at sign out. Everything was normal until my colleague stood up to leave and I realized that I was going to be alone. I\u2019d forgotten to check the weekend schedule and didn\u2019t realized that the staffing was decreased from what I was used to. I was breastfeeding, so I started to worry about how I would fit in time to pump.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen does the next attending come on?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot for a few hours. Don\u2019t worry. The residents are great. It\u2019s quiet. You\u2019ll be fine.\u201d<\/p>\n And for awhile, I was fine. Then a patient came in with a STEMI, and another with an acute stroke, and another after a major trauma and suddenly I was supervising a full emergency department with over forty active patients. The residents were doing a great job, but it was clear that this was too much for one attending to handle alone.<\/p>\n \u201cHey doc, can you come check on my patient? She looks sick. \u201d<\/p>\n I suppressed my annoyance at the interruption and followed the nurse back to the room in the corner, where the young woman with \u201ctypical renal colic and stable vitals waiting for imaging\u201d had been signed out.<\/p>\n Instead, I saw a patient who was pale with shaking chills. Her skin was hot and her pulse was fast and thready. I realized that this patient\u2019s simple kidney stone was now a full blown case of gram negative sepsis with an obstructed ureteral stone. If we didn\u2019t hurry, she was going to die.<\/p>\n We activated our sepsis code, started antibiotics and fluids, called urology, and moved with purpose as I hoped that we weren\u2019t already too late.<\/p>\n In this surprise single coverage window, I\u2019d missed my pumping break, so my chest was aching and full of milk. As we worked to resuscitate our patient, her partner turned to me and asked, \u201cShe\u2019s breastfeeding. Is this going to affect the baby?\u201d<\/p>\n In that moment, I didn\u2019t just burn out, I broke.<\/p>\n The imaginary line separating those of us in white coats from the others in hospital gowns dissolved, and I realized that I was just as human as my patient, and she was just as human as me.<\/p>\n I realized that I was being asked to do impossible things \u2013 to do the work of two attendings, while also acting as the primary source of nutrition for my baby at home. I was failing at all of those things as a woman lie critically ill in front of me. It all felt like my fault.<\/p>\n How could anyone succeed under these circumstances? How could this woman\u2019s life depend on my ability to achieve impossible things? This was madness. Thankfully, our treatments arrived in time, and she made a full recovery.<\/p>\n The next day I went to talk to my boss at the time. I was angry, with tears in my eyes. \u201cThis cannot happen again,\u201d I said. \u201cWe need to do something. We need to fix this.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you expect me to do?\u201d he said. He shrugged and ran off to a meeting.<\/p>\n My sadness and fear and frustration coalesced into fury. We weren\u2019t doing anything to prevent this from happening again. Next time, I wasn\u2019t sure if I\u2019d be the doctor, or the patient.<\/p>\n In that moment of rage and loneliness, I felt very queer. I was being asked to do the impossible and blamed when I failed and told that I was the broken one. But I knew better.<\/p>\n What it means to me to be a queer woman is to know what it feels like to feel totally broken and alone in the world. And then somehow, to know in the core of my human soul that I matter just as I am, simply because I exist. To know that I am worthy of joy and I am worthy of justice, simply because I am human. To know that when I am told that my joy doesn\u2019t matter, and when my justice is denied to me, I can step into my power to take it back.<\/p>\n In the context of how I grew up, coming out as queer meant challenging the foundation of every relationship I ever had. Breaking them down and rebuilding. I didn\u2019t expect to have to go through that again as a woman in medicine. What gets me through now are the tools and support that got me through the last time.<\/p>\n What do I do with my brokenness? What do I do with my rage? As a queer woman, I learned to come out. To tell my story.<\/p>\n One of the first times coming out worked was when I was 16. I was so lonely and so hopeless. I told my friend Eli what was going on. I don\u2019t remember exactly what she said, but I remember how she made me feel. \u201cHoney, don\u2019t be silly. I see you and I love you, exactly as you are.\u201d And in that moment, she healed me.<\/p>\n Back then, I thought coming out was something that you did once. Now I know it\u2019s something you do forever. I\u2019ve been coming out as queer for 18 years. But I\u2019ve also come out as pregnant. As angry. As wrong. As uncertain. As the doctor who cries in the trauma room. Coming out is about telling the truth that\u2019s not safe to tell, because it needs to be told. We tell each other our stories to heal, to connect, to share our collective wisdom. To say \u201cme too.\u201d To belong.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/feminem.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/01\/Mcnamara-1-300x224.png\")
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