A dark cloud has descended, cloaking everything in gray.

It isn’t just me.

One of my colleagues, Tony Alvarado (@TexasKidneyDoc), is one of the most upbeat and outgoing people I know.

Now he’s quiet.

His trademark smile is faint, and the light has faded in his eyes. 1/

Tony texted me the other day.

The most I’ve heard from him in weeks.

“My dad died last night.
COVID.
Pretty fast.
2020. Hell. On. Earth.”

I responded as best I could. Told him I was there for him.

His father was a kind man.

He didn’t have to die.

Not like this. 2/

It’s Fall 2008, and I’m a resident in Internal Medicine.

I’m attending a forum where I’ve been invited to read from the journal I’ve kept since medical school.

These are my thoughts that have been slowly consuming me.

The documenting of a downward spiral. 3/

I’m growing increasingly aware of a numbness within me. Moments that would move me before, now they evoke nothing.

The crucible of residency is forging me into a cold and unfeeling alloy I never wanted to be.

I write about it, and read my words to others who also know. 4/

I’m a guitarist, and I compare the sensation to the gradual numbing of fingertips against sharp steel strings, as the skin thickens and calluses form.

I want to tear off the calluses so the pain remains fresh, and real.

I would rather bleed on the strings than forget them. 5/