Abstract

Ten years ago, I stopped work as a junior doctor at a provincial New Zealand hospital and enrolled in a creative writing degree. I finished on a night shift—quiet, but marred by a particularly upsetting case of domestic violence. I remember getting changed at the end of the night into my own clothes, stuffing the scrubs I’d been wearing into the laundry bag that hung outside the doctor’s lounge, and leaving the hospital to pack for the move to a new city. It was a strange way to finish, on a Sunday morning, without the colleagues in the Woman, Child and Family service with whom I’d spent so much time.For the next year, instead of ward rounds, night shifts, and on-call, I read, wrote poetry, and trekked up the hill..