Contributing Writer
University of Miami Miller School of Medicine
Millin is a medical student at the University of Miami Miller School of Medicine. In her spare time, she loves to practice yoga, read novels, paint, draw, and drink tea.
I looked up from my computer to motion the next patient in line and saw before me an elderly gentleman who resembled many of the other patients attending our health fair in Key West. Casually dressed: a white V-neck T-shirt and track pants. Hair: gray and wispy. Skin: tan and leathery from the sun. He was over six feet tall, with an athletic build for a man his age. It was approaching lunch hour and the line for my Med IT station was dwindling.
What were you doing on Wednesday, Feb. 25, 2015, at 9 p.m. EST? Were you taking a bath? Were you having a meal? Most people were probably watching their favorite television show, having quality time with their families or reflecting on the day’s happenings. However, about 20,000 medical students and medical graduates in the United States collectively held their breath at 9 p.m. EST.
Midway through my internal medicine clerkship rotation, I was finally starting to feel like I had the hang of things. I was warned of the insurmountable amount of knowledge we would need to pick up, the tiring nights on call, and the constant uncertainty of our actions. But I was also told that it would be the first time I would feel like a doctor.
“In all seriousness,” the attending physician says, “he can wear women’s underwear to minimize the pain.” “Can he really?” “Absolutely,” replies the attending. “If we can’t prescribe any pain medication, then tighter fitting clothing can help keep things from jostling about too much.”
Her story started pretty similarly to any other patient I had over the past week and a half since starting my family medicine rotation. The nurse told me she had another patient who was checking in. I asked her for the name and began looking up the previous clinical notes and labs in the computer while waiting for her arrival from registration. She had a history of arthritis, GERD and uncontrolled diabetes — all diagnoses I had become comfortable discussing with patients.
Empathy: it’s what supposedly drives us to become physicians, and what we’re told to demonstrate through our extracurricular activities and during our interviews. We yearn for that perfect patient interaction in which we comforted or understood in a way that changed the patient’s perspective on medical care.
The barrage of words that greeted me as I was unceremoniously dropped off with my first medical team during my third-year internal medicine rotation twisted my stomach into a knot. Standing awkwardly with the team on rounds, the harsh fluorescent lighting overhead, I came to realization that I was much like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz…
During morning rounds, the resident and I stopped by our young patient’s room. He was technically five weeks old, but was born five weeks prematurely, so all in all, he was delightfully newborn-sized. The nurse was sitting in a recliner, holding him. He was well enough to be held. We finished rounds, ate breakfast, and headed to the OR. Our work unexpectedly finished early for the day, and I was free to go. Instead of immediately leaving the hospital, I headed back to our young patient’s room.
“If I begin to repeat myself, just tell me. I have Alzheimer’s. At least, I think I do,” the elderly gentleman said with a smile. This elderly patient of mine was a jovial gentleman and in fantastic shape with unremarkable vitals on physical examination. If it was not for his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease, the physical and emotional state of this patient given his age is nothing less than enviable.
“I have diabetes.” Shadowing at a pediatric endocrinology office, I was told this statement by a four-year-old patient. As weeks passed, I could not stop thinking about it.
In the rest of the house, the noise of the party is deafening: the clink of glasses, the sizzle of burgers on the grill, the excited cries of relatives reunited after long absences. But in the bright light of the kitchen, Mark is talking to me without sound. He presses his right hand over his left then moves up its length, separating his thumb from the rest of his fingers as he goes replicating the open and shut motions of a jaw. “This is the sign for cancer,” he says.
A mere five weeks into my third year of medical school, I met a patient who would leave an indelible mark. Jose was a Hispanic man that teetered between overweight and obese; I am a tall, medium-build Chinese-American who was thin in high school. He struggled with depression during 40 odd years of life; my biggest worry growing up was excelling on the competitive piano circuit. He spoke of a family rife with discord and unhappiness; my family is intact and supportive. He dropped out of college; I want to stay in school forever. He ate rice and tortillas; I ate rice and tofu. We were different but for a moment, our lives intersected.
Contributing Writer Emeritus
University of Wisconsin School of Medicine and Public Health
Jimmy Xu is a former project manager at Epic Systems and is interested in the intersection of healthcare and technology. He hosts a monthly DocTalk Madison meetup that brings together physicians and local entrepreneurs at 100state.
