The Dreaded Exam
The medical school recruiters and academic advisers had conveniently forgotten this detail during my educational overview when I originally signed up to be a physician.
The medical school recruiters and academic advisers had conveniently forgotten this detail during my educational overview when I originally signed up to be a physician.
You knock on the door. “Come in.” When you enter the room, a gowned patient sits calmly atop the examination table. For the next 15 to 20 minutes, you spend your time in the small, cramped and surveillanced room with this individual to tease out the mystery of their chief complaint.
He and I are early, and we are the only ones in the room. I sit in an office chair — the kind that swivels — around a long, industrial-looking table with another ten chairs, and I watch him as he nods, his eyes closed, to music playing through his headphones.
Barely into my second year of medical school, I already have a reputation — I love asking the uncomfortable stuff. Social history, sex, drugs, alcohol, I want to know it all. At first, it was just because that section randomly fell on me during small group sessions or standardized patient encounters. Then, I began to volunteer, or be volunteered. “Mariya loves the dirt,” my classmates say. Without saying, I always approach this section of the …
I walk around, wide-eyed yet confused. It seems so different. I always thought I was too objective for my art friends and too subjective for my science friends. But was that really an accurate reflection of my own personality? Medicine is about reductionism, objectivity and straightforwardness. In medical school, I’m learning a method of communication in which empathy is taught as a route to finding out more about a patient; it’s conveniently called the patient-centered …
“My rheumatologist was the one who told me I have cancer because for nine months we thought my back pain was due to a type of arthritis. He felt really bad about it and when he called me to tell me the diagnosis, he started crying on the phone.” A student in my second-year medical school class says this when we are in the big lecture hall for a class presentation on how to give …
It was just supposed to be a temporary job. At least that was what I envisioned when I started my position as a standardized patient at Albany Medical College. Four months earlier, I graduated a semester early from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Drama. When I applied to be an standardized patient (SP), I was searching for a way to take my acting career to the next level. …
“The patient, today, is Stephen,” revealed Mister the patient, his lips curled up in a mischievous smile. He was already wearing a hospital gown when I entered the physical exam room with two of my classmates. “But it’s not the name that’s written on the schedule. I’ve got Luke here,” my classmate noticed. When I heard Mister laughing that cheerfully, I knew that this clinical skills session would be different. Really different. It was not …