A Surprise Guest First rotation, knot in my gut <br>I knock on the door, open it up. Patient’s sleeping, I feel guilty But an exam determines what the plan will be. I walk to the bed with hands shaking Look down, my nerves start breaking. With a wagging tail and two floppy ears, A secret …
Medical school is boiled down to five emails: An acceptance proving premed was worth it; A Step 1 result after a dreadful four week wait; Clerkship grades distilling long weeks into one word; And a three-digit score shaping your future. Finally, Match Day asks: dream program or heartbreak? Somehow they promise it all works out.
Sometimes, the consultant will tell the patient that he has cancer, even if you tell them not to. It will suck for everyone involved. Don’t debate with the consultant if it was cruel or not. Pick up the pieces of the therapeutic relationship and focus on your patient instead. You’ll regret it if you don’t.
I once wept beneath a dream too heavy for my hands. I helped little, failed often, yet did not turn away. Darkness did not harden me. I was met by a gentle strength. Now, with soft hands and fragile wings, I ride with Him— carrying one drop of rain into the desert where cries go …
Third year found us welcoming a child too early. In the quiet panic, classmates arrived—one took a history, another stood with us in L&D, bridging us to care. Later, pediatric rotators smiled hello and met baby. Remembering our anxious first days in class, I am proud of becoming physicians together with such caring classmates.
I find joy and pride in taking five extra minutes to connect with patients. Sitting bedside, making eye contact, holding a hand. Those minutes may feel burdensome on busy days, but the impact of connection makes a world of difference. Trust quickens care, leaving patients and providers feeling valued and satisfied.
I once watched a man on the sidewalk, yelling at the sky. I kept walking, relieved to be a bystander. The next morning, I introduced myself to a new consult. It was the man from the street. Overnight, he became my patient. I saw him then with new eyes I hope never grow dull.
I returned to my small hometown for family medicine with a stethoscope and borrowed courage. I found myself teaching my past teachers and coaching my past coaches. Suddenly I appreciated more than ever the knowledge I have gained, and the clinic rooms I used to go to as a patient morphed into something new.
It will be better once I pass the MCAT. Better after Step 2. Better after the match. Better when I’m the attending. We keep dragging heaven uphill, one rung at a time. But the reality is, It’s good now. Five years ago I would have given anything to stand here. So I stand. Grateful.
Saturday, 18:30, PCH lobby. I look down and behold A little monster. Grayish fur haphazardly dyed purple, Wide eyes, teeth pointed every direction, and drool pooling on the hospital tile, you snarl at me. I back away, thanking your human for agreeing to visit my patient. Hopefully he’s okay with a weekend shift dog.
I study the anatomy as my blade delicately transects the fascial plane. The cadaver’s fingernails are painted. Noting the alignment of the abdominal muscle fibers to orient myself. She has striped socks on. Counting ribs. She built houses. Following vessels. She liked to hike. Squishy lungs, once filled with air, carrying her up mountains.
“You get the first admit tomorrow,” That’s what they said yesterday. “The list’s never this short,” You’ve never seen it long. “It’s odd to get so many cancellations” Isn’t 2-3 per day normal? The residents love you, you love it too, until it comes to your learning. You can’t help it, you’re a white cloud.
55-word stories are just that—stories told in 55 words. The genre wascoined by Steven Moss, founder of the New Times weekly in SanLuis Obispo County, CA, which sponsored the first 55-word storycontest in 1987. Since then, many communities, including medicine,have found the form useful in telling their unique experiences. Voices from the Faculty Editorial board …
Back cover art, “Cotton Candy”
I cried in the dark auditoriumas Dr. Fauci described how all of his patientsused to die.And now, less than a generation of medicinelater,I prescribe medicines he could only dream of.My patients?We talk about the weather,our weekends, our families.I shake their hands.I’ll see them again soon.
Dear Student,I can show you the way, even holdyour hand at first.I am, however, eventually going to let go. We came together because of my class.But look beyond that topic, learn to be curious, learn to teach yourself, learn to think clearly, and learn to write so others canfollow you.
Beep… boop… continuous…Patient life in ICU…Hope for improvement. Beep.. boop… continuous…Doctor life in ICU…Doing my job… check. Boop.. booop… boooop…. booooop…..beeeeeeeeeep……….Patient death in ICU…Your suffering gone. Boop.. booop… boooop…. booooop…..beeeeeeeeeep……….Patient death in ICU…My despair begins. Within my control?Feeling burned out… hopelessness?My ICU life? …
Room by room, they ask, “How am I doin’doc?” They mean, “Please, don’t let me goblind.” I reply, “Everything looks good.” I mean,“I’ll do my best.” Room by room, they gift metrust. Room by room, that gift transforms intoweight in a reverse metamorphosis – butterflyback to caterpillar, hope into burden.
The baby had sparkling eyes and a captivating smile, even around his endotracheal tube. He traded one tube for another (tracheotomy), but would not let go of his ventilator. Not for 15 years. He taught so many those 15 years, without ever speaking a word. He is still teaching, in the book we wrote together.
My sister calls two days before Christmas,“Our brother is gone… he died by suicide.” Twenty-four years old,A graduate student.He had missed the deadline to submit his thesis. First day of class,I look into the eyes of the graduate students I teach,Twenty-four years old. And I pray they know their worth.
When I was seven, I saw a genetic code table in a reference book. Must be a magic spell, I thought, as I looked at the columns of the mysterious “Phe,” “Leu,” “TTT,” and “TCT.” I whispered it, line by line, waiting for some powerful magic to manifest. And it did. It filled my world.
Late at clinic stilltyping, typingI am struck with hunger pangsmy lunch long goneI search the breakroom fridge.So much salad dressing, coffee creamers,not much sustenance,I push those other containers aside.At the back,luminescent in its green saline solution1 solitary pickle.Alien like,long past expired,all mine.
A phone call came to the clerkship director.A student wasn’t meeting expectations. The director met with a surprised student.The student asked:Why wasn’t I given the feedback directly?How can I improve without constructivefeedback? The director did not have these answers,But the attending did. Have courage to give honest, constructivefeedback.
She loved her unborn daughter so deeply that they chose to forego NICU admission and spare her the pain caused by “intensive care” which would not necessarily save her life. She was in labor. Unknown to all, her uterus ruptured… her daughter died, she arrested, CPR, ECMO. She survived, changed. She loved her children most.
