My hands shake.
They always shake. At the wrong moments, at the most critical moments, when all eyes are focused on me, when the collective stares burn through the back of my hands only to make the shaking worse.
At least that’s what it feels like. It feels like heat on my hands, at those opportune moments, when they always shake.
They say: You’re too timid. You keep your eyes down, one foot back, too ready to step out of the way rather than to jump in. Your hands shake too much. Your voice, it quavers. So soft it can barely be heard and when it is finally heard the words are tremulous in nature, almost pleading. Always asking permission, always anticipating refusal or rejection. Never strong, unwavering, commanding.
The bright lights, the over-white rooms, they make me tremulous. They make me feel out of place, out of depth. They make me long for soft colors and calm yellow lights. I’ve never been good at hiding my emotions. They lie at the surface of my skin, my hands, my voice.
The subintern’s voice rings through the room, clear yet quiet, strong but indescribably calm. Don’t worry about anyone else. Don’t look anywhere else. Look down at your hands, at your work. Needle in, needle out. I physically lug my stubborn mind away from the residents, the anesthesiologists, the nurses, the scrub tech, watching and waiting, their collective gazes burning a hole through my skin. It’s hard work, but I pull my stubborn mind away from them and on to the little flap of skin I have delicately tented. Needle in, needle out. Needle in, needle out. I listen only for the calm of his voice, steady with kindness, and I look only at my needle and the little flap of skin until it’s over.
That was before.
I learned, I battled with myself. The battles I have with myself are the hardest ones of all, one part of me waging war on the other until my insides feel heated, hurt and confused. But the part of me that was supposed to win, did win. I learned that competence is exuded more by my body than by my mind. So I trained my body. Always slight and hesitant, it was now trained to be something entirely different. It was no easy task.
I now walk in with a sense of purpose that may sometimes be feigned, but skillfully so. My hand often does not know what to do, but it feigns confidence in its utter absence of shakiness. Mistakes made by a steady hand are more easily overlooked than by a shaking one. My gaze is laser focused, strong enough to burn a hole itself. My heart beats like a drum but you could never tell. You could never tell from my calm exterior the battles being waged within me.
I ask with a clear voice, not arrogant but not subservient (ah, what a journey it was to perfectly find that middle ground), for my tools. By their proper names. I get to work. Needle in, needle out. I leave a wake of delicately zippered skin behind me.
Unlike the delicate skin that I carefully pull at, my own skin is so thick by this point that the heat of a thousand gazes wouldn’t so much as leave a mark on me.
When I’m back home, among soft lights and warm colors and loving voices, I let my hands shake. I let my voice quaver. I let my thick skin soften. But I know it’s only for a little while. I know, it’s only for a little while. Daylight is just around the corner and this time, I promise you, I am prepared.
Sanjna Surya is an MS3 at the Perelman School of Medicine.
