I did not know that the first time I met Viejo was the last time I would see him as himself. At the time I was a medical student on a rotation that gave me junior physician-level responsibilities, and with it the chance to prepare for my upcoming transition, one I had worked for years to attain: becoming a doctor. A trusted healer. A source of comfort and competence. A cooperative team player. I was painfully aware of my own shortcomings—not enough knowledge or experience—but deeply devoted to the acquisition of both, and to the creation of meaningful connections with my patients.
Viejo, as his wife lovingly called him, was my first patient. His bright eyes glowed behind wide, plastic-rimmed eyeglasses, his handshake firm, his smile trusting. But Viejo’s story was an all too common tale among the low-income population my public hospital serves. Unable to afford regular preventive healthcare services, he had presented with mysterious new “back pain” that, through a CT scan, revealed itself to be late stage cancer, already metastatic to the bone. Viejo and his family—his dear, devoted family—came to us hoping for a timeframe for recovery, and instead received an estimated expiration date. Continue reading →
Mr. Williams came to us as so many patients do.
“I just fell down,” he repeated, grumpily, his snaggletooth resting on his cracked, pursed lips.
Our team of eight white coats had descended upon him with rapid fire CIWA questions during morning rounds—the Emergency Department’s workup suggested his fall was secondary to intoxication—but he wasn’t giving up a single hit.
“Have you been feeling sweaty at all today?”
“That’s no one’s business but my own.”
“Do you have a headache right now?”
“I will if I keep listening to this foolishness.”
“Would you say you feel more agitated than usual?”
“Only when people like you keep asking me questions.” Continue reading →
“She refused the ultrasound!” my resident announced with exasperation, updating our attending on 17-year old, pregnant Mariana, who arrived four hours ago with abdominal pain and an unpleasant attitude that rubbed nearly everyone wrong way.
We could hear the crescendo of Mariana’s expletives from the hallway, as patient transport wheeled her back into our Emergency Department (ED). “That bitch tried to stick a wand inside me!” she yelled out, to no one in particular, to everyone around her. “You all keep me waiting for four fucking hours with this damn needle in my arm and don’t tell me nothing. I’m going home.”
Part of me immediately felt empathetic to Mariana’s concerns, even if not to her attitude. As our team’s medical student, I had interviewed Mariana extensively, learning that she was not only a “G2P1,” but also a parentless, single mother living in poverty with her infant son, struggling to complete high school, and constantly fighting off bullies in her neighborhood. Mariana led a complex, stressful life. This ED visit was becoming just another complication. Continue reading →
Simon was a young man struggling to stay afloat in the present, anchored down by traumas of his past. He was raised in a neighborhood plagued by poverty and crime, and as a teenager was shot in his spine, a merciless act by a malicious bully who thought it more humiliating to cripple his foe than to kill him outright. As a result, Simon became paraplegic, losing his leg function, his bladder control, and his sense of self-worth.
As the rest of his teenage body grew, his thighs and calves atrophied into pathetic brown sticks. Wheelchair-bound and barely 20 years old, he became so entrenched in depression that he spent entire days sitting still, allowing himself to develop pressure ulcers on his buttocks, which soon became infected and spread, like poison, to his bones and through his blood. It was a stark sight to behold, to peel the sticky beige bandages off his glowing, caramel skin, and see it suddenly wrinkle into raw, pink tissue, then plunge downward, toward bone, the cavern seeping with frothy, yellow pus.
When I first met Simon, I found his acute physical injury measured equal in devastation to his chronic illness of isolation. Continue reading →
What medications do you currently take? Do you have any allergies? What medical conditions did your parents live with, or die from?
As physicians, we are conditioned to drill every patient with a standard list of questions whose answers could literally save a life. We investigate for drug toxicities, medication interactions, daily exposures, and family histories that shed light onto present illness.
Within our standard interview we also check off mandatory boxes to describe a patient’s “Social History”—Do you smoke cigarettes? Drink alcohol? Use drugs? Have sex?—however we are not always trained to see our patients as social beings. We are not always prompted to ask another, crucial set of questions that could just as easily save a life as uncovering heart disease history:
Do you live alone? Who will visit you here in the hospital? With whom do you share your private worries and fears? How much of your week do you spend with other people?
In other words: Are you lonely? Continue reading →