July 27, 2013

The 180

You came in for a virus;

A fever,

Some pain in your legs.

There were mosquitos on vacation—

Could that be the reason?

The story was that you were a happy kid;

Excited to play baseball and start first grade.

But your body had other plans.

It turned on you.

There were blasts and there shouldn’t be.

Biopsies.

Blood panels.

Lumbar punctures and ports.

            And suddenly a mother’s worst nightmare was born.

What do you do when the world completely flips?

The only wars you wage now are against yourself.

It’s you against you, but not you. 

The sick kid, the sad parents,

They’re just stories on the radio, the TV.

              The people you see, but won’t be—

Can’t be.

The truth is, Even when,

Poison is the hero and you fight against yourself,

The world is still turning.

Little boys will dream of baseball,

First grade and Spring.

If all goes right, the 180 will become 360,

And nightmares become sweet dreams again.

This is a poem I wrote in honor of my first patient as a third year student. 

It was weird to think that after two years of literally cramming my brain with thousands upon thousands of words and facts and associations and medications, I would suddenly walk into the hospital and be on the care team.  Don’t get me wrong.  I know a lot of things.  Ask me the genetic chromosomal translocation of Acute Pro-Myelocytic Leukemia and I can pull that from its tidy file, but if that patient comes to see me, I’m not going to know what to do about it.  There are just too many dimensions of knowledge in medicine.  I now fully understand why there are so many years of training.   

In the classroom, we would look at the disease and deconstruct it.  What caused it?  What does it look like?  What does it make the patient look like?  How would you treat it? What are the risk factors?  All these random little details that you assemble into a Lego structure and then you have the problem solved and the answer right.  There was a point in my studying where I became so fixated on the facts of the case and the symptoms, I would literally skip the first sentence that described the actual patient being discussed.  He was just a name and an age, what was more important was the disease he had.  That’s all that really mattered.   

In the story of my first patient, I knew the facts, and I knew them well.  I could tell you about the genetics of the disease.  I knew what the peripheral smear would look like that would diagnose him, as well what the mechanism of action of the drugs that would treat him.  But what they just can’t teach you is the way a parent looks at you when they’ve just received some of the scariest news of their life.  They don’t teach you that in the course of one hour a little boy goes from a kid who maybe got a tick bite on vacation to a little boy on the cancer floor of the hospital getting prodded with needles and nurses.  A little boy who now will be at the mercy of poison for years to come.  When you are in the classroom, you have the distance between you and the disease.  You have the safety of pages and pictures that you can simply glance at and dismiss at your leisure.   Now you can’t separate yourself from the patient; glaze over him as unimportant detail.  Because his face, or the face of their spouse, or child, or parent, is the face that is looking right back at you and listening to every word from your mouth as you describe a small detail that could alter their lives forever. 

When you finally reach the hospital as a medical student, you reach the heart of medicine and that is where you will learn the most important details about what this all really means.