At the start of clinical rotations, we are urged by preceptors to immerse ourselves in the experience, advocate for our patients and strive to understand them better than the rest of the team. I could not, however, shake an underlying thought: Why would any patient divulge their most intimate details to someone so inexperienced? After all, I was just a medical student.

Part I

“Please go speak to the patient in room three, she is here for a headache,” the resident instructed. Excited, I hurried down the hall, clutching my reflex hammer and tuning fork tightly. Stepping into room three, I was greeted by a young woman with a warm smile. I would learn that the smile masked the storm raging underneath the surface.

I began my typical introduction and dug deeper into the symptoms associated with her headache. Suspecting a tension headache, I gently probed, “Is there anything in your life that might be causing you stress?” Instead of a simple answer, her mask dissolved and the floodgates opened. Her words poured out, revealing a hidden world of anguish.

She spoke of a tumultuous relationship, the worries that keep her up at night, and the fear that grips her every waking moment. Fear of the unknown, fear of being alone, fear that something terrible will happen. Fear that prevents her from living life.

Listening with the utmost attention, I became a confidant, a witness to her moment of vulnerability as her emotion-laden words hung in the air. As she finished her story, a sense of relief washed over her, and the burden she held on her shoulders seemed to lighten. 

“I have never told anyone this,” she confessed.

Moved by her trust in me, I thanked her for sharing her story and assured her I would support her to the best of my abilities. I left the clinic that day grateful for the opportunity to bear witness to her story and hopeful that she would receive the care she needed.

Part II

As I walked into the hospital at dawn, a quiet hum met my ears. Anticipation coursed through me as I made my way to pre-round on the patient whose baby I helped deliver the day before. I recalled the rush of guiding the fetus out into the world, delicately snipping the cord and listening to the cries of joy from the family as I handed over their beloved new addition.

Quietly pushing open the door to my patient’s room, I could hear the soft cries of the newborn as her mother attempted to breastfeed. I hurried over to the bed, eager to reconnect with the family and inquire about any overnight events. Before I could begin, the mother’s weary smile did not escape my notice, nor did the shadows underneath her eyes. With concern, I inquired about her sleep overnight.

She shook her head and continued to attempt to breastfeed her newborn, who stubbornly refused to latch. Sensing her frustration, I asked if there was anything I could do to help. It was then that she made eye contact with me and, amid her struggle, she let herself be vulnerable. With a heavy sigh, she admitted to feeling unfit to be a mother. She hung her head in shame, and I assured her that she was doing the best she could.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” she confessed. “Not even my husband.”

As the rays of the sun filtered through, I excused myself from the room to continue my pre-rounding duties. Just before I exited, however, I couldn’t help but look back. It was then that I noticed the newborn had finally given in and latched. I smiled to myself, hoping this achievement would give my patient confidence in her ability to be a wonderful mother.

Epilogue 

As I reflect on these patient encounters, I realize the answer is simple. Building a strong connection with patients does not require extensive knowledge and skills. Rather, it requires taking a step back and listening. As a medical student, I had time that other members of the team often lacked. This allowed me to form meaningful bonds with patients by sharing in their sorrows and moments of joy. Through this human-to-human connection, key pieces of information often surfaced, changing the trajectory of their management. In the end, it did not matter what my title was. What mattered most was that patients felt heard. And in these moments of vulnerability, they were heard by a mere medical student.

Image credit: Help giving (CC BY-NC 2.0) by BournemouthBC