I have to work on Monday, which means any eclipse party I attend will be under fluorescent lights. Like many other Mainers, I have researched maps and shadow trajectory. My workplace is just outside of totality and I am wicked bummed about missing the big event. When someone said consolingly to me, “Well, Augusta will be at 98% totality,” I tried to reason through my disappointment. If I cross off 98% of the items on a to-do list, I feel awesome. In medical school, receiving 98% on an exam left me elated. That is a high pass, a very good grade. If 98 out of 100 patients have an excellent response to a medication or a vaccination, that represents an exceptional treatment. So, for this solar eclipse, why is 98% just not good enough for me?

Medical school, residency, and a physician career demands time. Over the years, I have missed big events, like holidays, weddings, and funerals; and smaller things: the Common Ground fair, piano recitals, camping trips. I should be accustomed to personal disappointments. I shouldn’t be bitter about working during the total solar eclipse on April 8. But every news story and Instagram post about the astronomical event feels like salt in an open wound. I cannot drive to the path of totality because I’ll be at my job, like so many other doctors, nurses, medical assistants, lab techs, janitors, kitchen staff, phone operators, secretaries, and security guards. Like cops, AAA tow truck drivers, small business owners, paramedics, fast food restaurant employees, and teachers. I know that I am not alone in my work obligations, and I am still feeling sorry for myself, even though I will experience 98% totality of a solar eclipse without even driving!

Let me consider my glass 98% full rather than 2% empty. When I think about what I have gained from my work, I realize I would not trade any of it. As a full-spectrum family medicine doctor, I get to witness astonishing events every day. Every time I deliver a baby, I see a universe of possibility spiraling out like a galaxy. Holding the hand of someone who is dying offers me a rare and unique glimpse of invisible energy, like solar flares seen when the moon slides between a daytime sun and a human on earth. Treating someone battling addiction and watching them start to emerge into a clean and sober life is as awe-inspiring as a comet tracking across the heavens.

Every encounter I have with patients is an exploration of a new planet. What makes this person tick, I wonder. What is important in this person’s world? If their planet is wobbly, we work together to right its trajectory (adjust the insulin a bit, change blood pressure medications) and if all is well, we consider how to maintain the orbit. (What cancer screenings are needed and how are their vaccinations?)

NASA estimates that 31.6 million people live in the path of this eclipse’s totality and another 150 million live within 200 miles. How many of us have the opportunity to provide abortion care, prenatal care, contraception care, obstetrical care, well child checks, treatment for acute and chronic diseases, house visits, and more to members of the same family? And to do so over generations? Witnessing my patients’ lives unfolding — and using my privilege and platform to effect change on personal and public levels — feels miraculous. I truly have the best job in the world (98% of the time).

So, why then, I ask my pouting self, am I less than overjoyed to witness 98% totality? Even though I’ll be working, maybe I can step outside the hospital for a moment. A fingernail clipping of a crescent sun peeking out from behind the moon will still be a wonder to behold. I have a little pair of cardboard glasses folded in the pocket of my doctor’s white coat in hopes of a few minutes outside during my day. What if I am managing an emergency around 3:30 p.m.? To that patient and their family, nothing in the world or even in the entire solar system will eclipse the importance of their care at that moment. And I am 100% lucky to have the opportunity to be the one providing it.

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