I drop my head onto the desk, between the sphygmomanometer and the printer. I’m flat as a deflated blood pressure cuff, empty as a ransacked printer tray. Nothing left.

The patient who shouted when I said it was too early for their script. The woman who burst into tears at the end of her pap smear and told me her father had died. The febrile pre-schooler who I was pretty sure had a respiratory virus but who I knew I’d be lying awake tonight worrying about, could I have missed early meningitis? The pensioner who wheely-walked so slowly to the consult room that I ground my teeth with irritation, already running ten minutes late. The banker who I still couldn’t convince to start anti-hypertensives. The high school student who whispered she had finally contacted the sexual assault counselling service, causing silent ripples under my surface even while I encouraged her. The distress and drama hammering away at my last reserves. The pressure to get it right leaving me with a tension headache. All afternoon I’d been numb and irritable, counting down the hours until I can get home and sink a few beers.

Now it’s time to catch up on my notes and do the referrals and check results and return phone calls.

But I can’t.

I can’t lift my head off the desk. I watch the wooden grain stretch out sideways from my cheek which seems to be wet with salty fluid.

Every day feels more unmanageable and overwhelming than the day before. So much I don’t know, so many demands, so much responsibility. I’m only a registrar, how will I ever make it through training, exams, medical life? How does everyone else seem to know what to do, seem to have things in hand?

A dark spear of despair lances through my middle. Maybe I’m not meant to. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe I am the failure I feel like today. How can I be a doctor when I can’t even solve my own problems?

Maybe I’m a failure at life.

Shame creeps over me and burns me into the office chair.

I cry silently, so the receptionist won’t hear. I pinch my skin until it bruises, something my dumb self deserves.

Maybe I shouldn’t be here at all.

My phone pings and I sit up and automatically swipe it. A message from my sister, with a photo of her three-year-old carting the long-suffering cat through the kitchen by his furry armpits. My niece’s round cheeks glow with triumphant effort. A warm shot of love goes through my heart. That kid. I flick through the other pics of her mainlining birthday cake, weeding next to her big brother in the vegie patch, tucked up in a giraffe onesie for goodnight stories. That kid.

I take a ragged breath, and I know I want to be there for her next birthday. I know I want to see what comes next.

I know I might need some help to get there though.

I message my sister back that I love her, and send hugs to my niece.

Then I Google ‘doctor needs help’.

Dr Joo-Inn Chew

Need to talk? Please reach out to your GP or our confidential 24/7 doctors’ health line – 1300 DR4DRS (1300 374 377) or visit our website www.drs4drs.com.au