June 22, 2012

        By the end of the second week the stream of patients had been so vast, varied and extensive that I could hardly place a name to the diagnosis.  It’s making me wonder how I will ever keep up with all the patients once I am more than just an observer.  That’s a lot of medicines, lab results, allergies, and social histories to keep straight. 

Rounds have been by far the most interesting time of the day.  We go as a team to meet new patients or give progress reports on others.  It’s not really that interesting to go stand in a room to listen to other people talk, but it is interesting to watch the interaction between the families and doctors, and doctors and patients.  Most often the room is dark and we wake our patients and families up with a mass movement of yellow-gowned people of indiscernible origin crowding around a sick bed. These moments have taught me lessons that classrooms cannot.  How to deal with pained patients and frustrated parents.  How to communicate with people in the midst of language and social barriers, and mostly to put all of the pieces of the puzzle together to see the patient, disease, and cure all in the same place. 

As a student, it is sometimes difficult to see past the disease itself.  That is something that I need to work on.  You see the situation more as a case study and less like you trying to end some pain and worry.  I think about the right questions to ask and the meaning behind the labs, and not about the effect these have on the patient.  From observing the attendees and residents, it seems like this comes with time, but I still have a long time until I become comfortable enough in my role to see more than just the means of health care.  Now, don’t think me callous.  I walk into the rooms and, as an observer, hear the stories with compassion and empathy.  Not every case is interesting, I can’t help but admit, but every case is of utter importance to the people involved, and that has to be the one thing I remember, no matter my role in the case. 

When the time comes, however, for me to play doctor, I begin to see the task at hand and not so much the patient.  I enter the room and play a film strip in my head of all the chores that have to be checked off the list.  Introduce myself.  Ask question A and question B.  And don’t forget question C.  Keep eye contact, and allow the patient or the family to talk, but don’t let them talk too much.  You do have other things to do and people to see.  And then comes the physical exam.  Is the patient breathing? Check.  Can you hear a heartbeat? Is the stethoscope on correctly? Lung sounds? Is that sound my shirt or a lung crackle? Pupils? Reflexes?  There’s a lot to remember and even now I can’t recall all the components.  Then there are the labs.  A lot of numbers that can tell me so much about a patient.  The blood cultures.  The stool samples.  The myriad of facts that tell me everything I need to know about a patients true health form a mask in front of the true face of the patient.  And as these numbers increase and these histories and physical findings become more extensive, the faces behind the sickness begin to blend together and I can hardly find the patient in the hospital, let alone remember why they came. 

But how can I forget the people that have been so formative in the beginnings of my medical education?  The boy with salmonella meningitis whose family could not take him home for fear of reinfection has taught me that every family has its own cross to bear.   The 4-year-old girl with diGeorge’s syndrome who taught me to recognize the different degrees of heart murmurs (6 degrees, who knew?).  And I’ll never forget the weary faces of mothers who were wishing that they could ease their children’s pain or simply find a way to take their babies home. They remind me of the reasons to keep on learning, so that one day I could be a source of comfort.  Not that I will not have the answers all the time, but I will know enough that the faces will begin to reemerge from the facts and I will be able to play the small and vital role in giving some sort of ease and comfort.    

June 15, 2012

It’s been over a week in the hospital and I am finally learning the ropes of the place.  I can find my way around at least (and all the places that have free food!) and beginning to feel more a part of the team.  There have been a great variety of cases, from the mundane to the interesting to the downright mysterious.  And each day I learn and see something new.  Here are just a few things I have learned about life in a hospital. 

-          It is never a good thing to be interesting to doctors.  Doctors, residents, and medical students all love medicine, and the more interesting case, the better.  We like to see what we have read about. But you don’t want to be what we have read about, because it’s probably rare, dangerous, and involves an difficult procedure.

-          There can never be enough caffeine.  Coffee, cola, and tea is everywhere, and it is put to good use. 

-          Doctors are still able to keep their humor.  From the quote boards in the physicians’ offices to the sporadic games of jeopardy and resident roasts, doctors aren’t as serious as they could be.  It’s good to keep a sense of humor. It makes the exhaustion and somewhat serious work-load seem a little more tolerable.

-          Doctors ask questions without shame.  I thought that the best doctor would be the one who knows all the answers, but really, the best doctor is the one that asks questions, does research, and is not afraid to put their pride aside and make sure that what they are thinking is correct. They work in teams because, lets face it, the more brains, the better.  It gives me hope that I’m going to be a good doctor even without knowing all of the enzymes of the Krebs Cycle. 

Look, ma, I’m learning so much!  And in the end, I think learning how to be in the hospital and not look silly is, in the beginning, almost as important as knowing how to help patients.  That comes with time, and I have a lot of time to go.     

First Day

My white coat is a little big for me.  When I look at myself in the mirror, I can’t help but think that I look like one of those high school kids in those 80’s sitcoms. The sleeves are too long and must be rolled, the shoulders are big and boxy, and it really doesn’t quite hug the silhouette like a girl nowadays would like.   But still I like the crisp whiteness and all that it symbolizes in my life.  It has these silly pins that highlight my ‘newness’ to the profession, and even sports a tacky sign that merely says ‘observer, just because I know if I remove it, I will surely lose it and lose access to hospital shadowing privilege.  And the pockets are all filled to the brim with things that make me look like I’m actually doing something, like a stethoscope, a pen-light, blank H&P forms, and rubber gloves.  I walk out of my apartment with my coat on, and for a few, fleeting moments I feel like I’m someone important;  but I can’t fool people for long. 

 I have just finished the first year of medical school, and though I learned so much, I still don’t think I know anything.  Silly words like the Islets of Langherhan, and ketoacidosis, gracilis, medial lemiscus, MCAD and neuropathy all hold a glimmering significance in my mind, but ask me about BUN/creatine ratios and I just stammer and mumble excuses about renal physiology just being my weak spot. (It is. I hate the kidneys.)   With the first year being complete, I decided it would be fun to spend my summer pretending to be a doctor and getting as much clinical experience as possible.  The month of June is filled with a pediatric externship (Externship: noun: a required period of supervised practice done off campus or away from one's affiliated institution.)  and a trip to Kenya to work in a medical clinic there.  Part of my hope in make my summer so full of clinical experiences was not just to get experience, but to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  It’s very dark in the library, and most time you lose sight of the forest in the midst of graphs and facts that promise to be useful someday but really you can’t imagine how and you just stuff them in your brain anyway. 

My first day of externship at Kosairs Children’s Hospital was just, well, awkward. (You want to see everything, but at the same time, you want to stay as out of the way as possible.  "Do I sit in the trashcan or just as close to it as possible?")  My first assignment was to go to an educational conference, where all the residents, interns, and attendees sit and talk and listen to different cases and presentations.  As I looked around, I was a little intimidated with all the long white coats in the room and all the confidence.  These people were not just scared little plebian doctor wanna-bes; no sir, these people had run the gauntlet and had conquered it.  I’m sure they didn’t even notice me sitting there bambi-eyed and scared.  The first presentation was a pediatric neurosurgeon.  In the middle of his talk about the neuro exam, he casually exclaims ‘Oh hey! There are medical students in this room too!’  Indeed there were.  As I was sitting directly in front of him, I became the target for my first pimp (the medical pop quiz, to test you on your preparedness of your future profession. I knew my first pimp would come, but never thought it would happen in a room full of already accomplished doctors). 

“Since you were bold enough to sit in front of me, what is the evaluation scale we use to measure patients who are unconscious?”

I racked my brain for any clue, but not even the remotest sliver of the answer appeared.

“I’ll give you a hint, it’s named after a town in Scotland”

Edinburgh?  Brigadoon?  I didn’t know I would have to know geography too to be a doctor.

“Glagscow Coma Scale,” was the final answer.  I wasn’t the only person to miss an answer, but it would have been nice to know that one simple fact.  I’ll never forget it now, that’s for certain. 

Before I knew it, the presentation was over and there was a mad rush of people shuffling out the door to go about their business of rounds and reporting.  And there I was, without much knowledge of where to go from there.  Luckily there was a doctor who kindly gave up the run-down and introduced us to the teams we would be shadowing.  I was given to the Blue team. 

                An attendee, 4 residents, 3 3^rd year medical students, and a lowly rising 2^nd year make up team blue.  We travel in a flock for the most part.  We round together, and give report together.  We make quite a crowd, and I can only wonder what patients and their families are thinking when we herd into their room and talk about the number of bowel movements the patient had in the past night.  They were so welcoming, and eager to teach me all that they know.  I still felt in the way, as you do shadowing anyone, but it wasn't as bad as it could be. They had all been there before, they understand my situation and are more than willing to help.  At times there is nothing else to do but merely stand around and wait and that is just the reality of my position.  Thank goodness for the iphone (never in a million years did I think I would ever say that, but there it is.) that I can use to look up facts and distract myself with in those moments of waiting around for something to happen. These next few weeks will prove to be quite the learning experience for me as I see things, learn things, and do things that I have only seen and heard about in the classroom.