Oh God, what time is it? I stumbled over to my bedside table in pitch-black darkness, thanks to my new blackout curtains, which continue to be the best financial decision I have ever made, and checked my phone that was blasting my alarm. The brightness of my phone blinded me at first, but then my eyes adjusted to its shine, and I came face to face with my terrifying reality on this simple Tuesday morning – I was going to be late. I quickly tried to put myself together as fast as possible in the darkness while recalling all the tasks I had to complete that day.
I decided to wear my new hand-me-down forest green scrubs because it was the Christmas holiday season, and I thought they would fit the aesthetic. Plus, I was going to my pediatric preceptorship. This would be my second time visiting her colorful and vibrant office filled with rainbows and inspirational quotes. I learned my lesson after my first visit: not dressing within those vibrant color palettes makes you stick out like a sore thumb. As a first-year medical student, I wanted to blend in as much as possible.
After another five minutes of trying to look as put together as possible, I scurried out the door and jumped into my car. I love driving; it gives me a chance to get lost in thought. Today’s drive was focused on the purpose of these preceptorship visits as a first-year medical student. I was still trying to understand the Krebs cycle, let alone the complexities intertwined with pediatric care. This felt like a waste of time. I could be using this time to study for my next exam instead of standing in the corner, knowing I would not be able to contribute anything meaningful to the team. I knew it was a learning opportunity, but I did not know when my comprehension would begin.
After a 20-minute drive, trying to find meaning in this seemingly meaningless experience, I arrived at my preceptorship. By some miracle, I was five minutes early. I got out of my car, entered the gray building that desperately needed repainting, ascended the dull staircase and walked into the land of rainbow murals and “Peppa Pig.” I greeted the medical receptionist with a smile as big as theirs and was led to the back where I met with the attending and other third-year medical students. We exchanged pleasantries and then began seeing patients.
I knew my place: stand in the corner, never ask anything that could scare the patients, and try to learn something. But when I walked in with the third-year medical student to see the next patient, I was taken aback with curiosity and familiarity.
The patient was a 28-year-old male sitting with his mother and possessed all the characteristics I had not only learned about in my first year of medical school but had also become familiar with since childhood. He has Down syndrome, I thought as I quickly went to my comfy corner in the multicolored room with building blocks and action figures scattered on the floor. As I listened to the third-year medical student take a history, I could not help but think about my aunt. She also had Down syndrome but died on Mother’s Day at 56-years-old at the beginning of the pandemic due to several neurological complications. Her decline was slow, but my family and I felt it was too quick. She was, and still is, one of my main inspirations for becoming a physician. My mind shuffled through memories of us watching “I Love Lucy” reruns and planning our next trip to Disney World, and then I was immediately pulled out of them when I noticed the patient was directly pointing at me.
“He’s wearing Jets colors, that’s bad luck!” said the patient in a distressed voice. As he explained why it was bad luck, I noticed he was covered in Miami Dolphins gear. As a South Florida native, I understood the importance of the situation and the crime I had just committed. His mother chimed in as well and jokingly asked, “What were you thinking wearing those disgusting colors?” I looked down at my carefully picked hand-me-down forest green scrubs that I thought would allow me to blend in but instead made me the focal point in the room. With my heart in my throat, I responded, “Well, I thought I would get into the holiday spirit, but I now understand how criminal these colors are. My deepest apologies.” The patient and his mother started to laugh. Once I was brought into the conversation, I could not escape it.
They moved on from my heinous crime against the Miami Dolphins and began to discuss their reason for the visit that day, always making sure to keep eye contact with me to ensure I felt included in the conversation. This patient had been through so much. He had leukemia when he was younger, which deeply impacted the entire family, and was now battling what I suspected to be parainfluenza. Thank you, Sketchy Micro, I thought as the patient described his seal bark cough. Despite all that he had gone through, he remained positive and never lost hope that the Dolphins would win the Super Bowl again. During the physical exam, I was told by the doctor to place my stethoscope over his heart. Once I placed it over his heart, a loud whooshing noise filled my ears. At first, I thought I was just hearing normal breath sounds, but once the doctor told the patient to hold his breath while I listened again, that loud whooshing noise was even more prominent. Unfortunately, I did not have an excellent poker face and appeared very confused. The patient’s mother noticed my confusion and said, “Now let me know what you hear, and do not lie because I will know if you are.” We both laughed and I said in response with an awkward smile, “I have never heard anything like that before. I am still learning where to put the stethoscope.” Everyone roared in laughter. Though it was a bit embarrassing for me to admit this, I felt comfortable sharing a little bit of my own humanity considering they were so open and honest with me. The doctor explained to me that the patient has Tetralogy of Fallot, a congenital heart defect, and it was a lesson I will never forget.
Once the visit ended and we said our goodbyes, the patient’s mother said to me jokingly, “If I ever see you again, you better not be wearing those awful colors.” I laughed and watched as the two biggest Miami Dolphin fans exited the building.
After we saw all the patients for the day, I said my goodbyes and got into my car. Back to getting lost in my thoughts with this evening’s topic: nothing in medical school is useless. I felt ashamed to think all of this would be a waste of time, but I know it was all coming from a place of stress and anxiety while trying to adjust to the lifestyle of a medical student. I never thought this experience would refuel me in a way that I so desperately needed — to be reminded of my why, to feel like I was contributing something even if I thought I was not, to remember that these are people’s lives, and they invited me to be a part of it.
I still look back to that day when that patient brought me into their lives to reenergize me whenever feel discouraged. When I returned to that clinic the next month, I kept my word to that family, and never wore those forest green scrubs again.
Image credit: Green (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) by Colin-47
Contributing Writer
Florida International University Herbert Wertheim College of Medicine
Alex is a second year medical student at Florida International University Herbert Wertheim College of Medicine in Miami, Florida class of 2027. In 2020, he graduated from Florida International University with a Bachelor of Science in biology. He enjoys reading, songwriting, and cooking in his free time. After graduating medical school, Alex would like to pursue a speciality in Anesthesiology.