In bygone days prior to EMR, when the robot most familiar to surgeons resembled a larger
version of a receptacle for bathroom waste that did not get flushed down the toilet, I
trained in surgery. There were no work hour restrictions. Residents took 24 hour in-house
call every 3rd or sometimes every 2nd night; 100-hour work weeks were the norm. In the
first month of training, I was informed by a senior resident, that in the opinion of our
chairman, all a novice surgeon required from life were the six S's: surgery, supper, shower,
shave, (a) shit and sex; not necessarily in that order. If one were to conclude from this that
facial hair was discouraged, one would be correct. This was especially true for the women
in our program for whom rules were more exacting.
Given the time commitment, it was difficult to make the acquaintance of living beings
outside the hospital in the so-called real world... or to visit a bank ATM. Being single, I fell
into a relationship with a nurse who was a year or two older than myself. I was trying to
survive. She was a self-described serial monogamist. The halcyon days of our romance
lasted 2 years before I abruptly ended them. A charitable rendering of the unraveling would
be that I was not ready for marriage. A truer statement was that I was a coward. This, at the
time of our breakup, my nurse amore immediately surmised. If the flirtation of Romeo and
Juliet had progressed similarly, the play embracing their relationship would be less tragedy
and more farce. As the aggrieved party, at our final tete-a-tete the one-time object of my
affection fired a couple of well-aimed verbal Tomahawk missiles at me. These were not
fatal, but they did hit the mark. I emerged from the encounter chastened.
A week or two later, a card arrived in my mailbox. The front flap of the card was softly
embellished with the enigmatic face of a young woman; the image reminiscent of a
Victorian portrait or an ivory cameo. Inside the card was a neatly folded paper copy of
Sonnet XLVII from Fatal Interview, by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
The Sonnet begins, “Well I have lost you..."
The card was signed Love followed by the name of my former romantic partner.
This gesture of forgiveness landed like a final gentle brush of her lips against my cheek. I
have no idea if she sent such missives to all her failed romantic partners. No matter!
The Sonnet enclosed in the card was my introduction to the poetry of Edna St. Vincent
Millay, a widely heralded poet of early 20th century America. Except for a glimpse once or
twice down the long corridors of the hospital, I never again saw my lady friend. Spurred by
the memory of our denouement, years later browsing at a brick-and-mortar bookstore I
bought a copy of The Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. I have since folded down
the upper outside corner of the pages that contained my favorite poems, most having to do with Millay’s keen observance of the natural world. The book sits in a drawer of the
nightstand to the right of my bed. Occasionally on a winter night before sleep I pull out the
book and reread one of the poems.
Bruce Harris MD FACS is a retired General Surgeon who practiced in North Carolina. Dr. Harris earned a BS in Physics at Harvey Mudd College in 1977, and is a graduate of the University of Missouri-Columbia School of Medicine in 1981. He enjoys running, reading, writing, snowboarding, and rafting.
