Tremors

Abstract

As I am sure you can appreciate, my time spent here in the emergency room this afternoon has been unpleasant. During residency training, my emergency room rotation was the only one that required me to suture, something I avoided because as you often pointed out, I lack the hands of a surgeon. I chose to stitch up only the most inebriated patients, their drunken misadventures more scarring than poorly sewn lacerations. Ethanol is also a convenient anesthetic, and many times I probably could have done without even injecting lidocaine to freeze the skin. I still did, though, to practice guiding the needle with my trembling hand. To make up for my lack of dexterity, I spent hours each night poring over textbooks while you sat across from me, intently tying surgical knots. I would read aloud while you chimed in with this or that obscure fact, our duet set to the rhythm of your hands suturing the spliced skin of pigs' feet. In this way, we would study together. Yet I was perhaps only exceptional in how consistent my mediocrity was, and my clinical scores remained firmly average throughout our schooling. How you managed to effortlessly recall the minutiae of even our densest textbooks was beyond me, but I harbored no jealousy. On the contrary, I felt a sort of unjustified pride that I might play some small role in what was to become of you.