Medical Student Editor and Contributing Writer Emeritus
University of Alabama at Birmingham School of Medicine
Stephanie Cockrill is a fourth year medical student at University of Alabama at Birmingham School of Medicine. She enjoys horseback riding, crafting, and quilting in those fleeting instances of free time available during school. She and her husband are parents to two dogs: Arya, a 5-year-old Collie, and Sybil, a 2-year-old Labrador/sharknado mix.
To physicians, hospice frequently symbolizes defeat. Referring a patient to hospice care can feel like admitting that disease has defeated years of training. In medical school, we are trained that the role of the doctor is to fight the disease and find the cure.
At 7:21 p.m., I arrive at the hospital for the first overnight shift of my medical career. It’s not a great start — the bus was late, and I didn’t sleep nearly enough this afternoon in preparation for the night ahead.
Yellow does not mean sunshine, nor lemons. / Definitely not daffodils, nor sharp, new Number 2’s. / Yellow means sick. Dirty. Dangerous.
Tears hold onto the ledges of her eyes. As the physician and I approach, a quivering begins. It emerges at the jaw, a flutter running across her lips, only to drop onto her shoulders and envelop her hands.
During the team huddle I was assigned to Room 403, Bed 1. “There is a lot you can learn from this patient. You should see him.” I got the one liner and was off.
“Dan the magic man,” Q replied. Q rummaged through his jacket pocket and pulled out a quarter. A childish smile brought the color back to his face as he attempted to make the coin disappear into thin air and then pull it out from behind my ear.
I slide through the door swung open by the janitor. It closes with a metallic shudder.
Everyone says that medical school gets better, especially during third year. The traditional four-year curriculum covers the basic sciences in the classroom for the first two years. Then suddenly, third year plunges us into clinical rotations in the hospital, where we’ve all dreamed of working for so long.
On the first day of my neonatology elective I met Aaron, a one-day-old infant born to a mother with a history of intravenous drug abuse. The mother was reportedly attending a methadone clinic during her pregnancy to address her opioid addiction, but her urine drug screen was positive for fentanyl.
A pair of Navy socks on pale, scrawny legs — that’s what I remember about him. 0300 hours in the ED and the umpteenth “What brings you in tonight, sir?” and suddenly all the patients start to meld together.
On inpatient pediatrics, I helped care for a young boy admitted following urological complications after surgery. I first heard about him during morning sign-out: he was in severe pain, and his Foley catheter kept getting clogged and needed to be flushed repeatedly.
Anyone who has been a hospital patient knows one undeniable truth: it is impossible to get a good night’s sleep. Daily labs are drawn at 1 a.m. SCDs squeeze your legs every 10 minutes. Machines beep in your room. Chatter and alarms flood the hallways. Even the most exhausted of us would have trouble drifting off amidst this clamor.
Contributing Writer
Sidney Kimmel Medical College at Thomas Jefferson University
Tim Bober is a third year medical student at Thomas Jefferson University in Philadelphia. He grew up in a small town outside Pittsburgh, PA and graduated from Penn State in 2012 with degrees in English and Biology.
