My eye twitched as I scrunched my nose furiously under my mask. It was our 5th hour into surgery and I desperately needed to scratch my face. I stared at my hand, almost alien-like in my glove, gripping the retractor. My mind had been racing a million miles per minute, trying to pay attention to the questions the attending was asking on the off chance that one of them might be directed at me. “What does it even matter?” I thought to myself cynically. “I probably won’t know it anyway. Maybe I’ll get to close? Hopefully, I can throw my knots better than last time. I should call my mom. I wonder if anyone else has to pee.” To be honest, I had already cried once during the surgery. Silently, behind my eye shield, tears dampening the light blue of my mask. I’ve always been an easy crier so this didn’t really surprise me but still, not an ideal way to start any morning.

I had gotten a text message while rounding. Way too early for anyone in my family to be texting me. “This can’t be good news,” I thought as I sprinted to keep up with my resident down the fluorescently lit hallway.

I scrubbed in for the day, staring at the foamy soapy water swirling and running down the drain. My mind drifted to the message and I kept re-reading the words in my mind. My mom had gotten some new imaging done and the results were concerning. She had been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer before I started my first year of medical school. The first couple of months were full of uncertainty, worry, and immense anxiety. She was getting worse and we couldn’t find a treatment that worked for her. However, as my first year went on, she got somewhat better. Stable, they said. She started on targeted gene therapy and regular chemotherapy and I felt almost hopeful again. Second year started and I settled into the rhythm of school and our new normal.

But this was unexpected. Shocking. Breathtaking. She had been doing well symptom-wise and there had even been some discussion about lengthening the time between her chemo cycles. I had already been struggling to balance my schedule during rotations. My schedule was not mine; I had little control over what time I could be home, what days I had off, and what hospital I was going to next. I didn’t have the same flexibility as before where I could take a random Tuesday morning or Friday afternoon to go with my mom to her oncology appointments or hang out during long chemotherapy sessions. Or even just make the drive to my parents’ house for dinner. I had so many questions. “What was going to happen next? Is this even all worth it?”

“Erin, look: what artery is this?” My attending’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I squinted down and tried to picture the shaky video I had watched last night in preparation for today’s case. I made my best guess and took a deep breath, settling my racing heart. Focus, I told myself.

It was night by the time I left. I felt sticky, tense. Looking up, the bright lights of the hospital illuminated the dark sky but to my surprise, a full moon greeted me. Its yellow presence was calming and reassuring. It grounded me. This is what I had worked so hard for. To care for others. To help them in their time of need. To be the one to figure out the answers. But here I was, constantly feeling caught in the in-between. “Am I not being there for my family? Am I missing out on my time with her?”

Sitting in my car and listening to the engine hum, I did what I could do now. I called my mom.