Category: Narrative

Categories
Clinical Emotion Empathy Narrative Reflection

Takotsubo

Valentine’s Day is not typically kind to medical students. While many couples share flowers and romantic dinners, my fiancé and I looked forward to escaping the hospital just long enough to exchange sweet-nothings over take-out sandwiches. Though lacking in outward displays of affection, this Valentine’s Day was imbued with something different. A few weeks ago, a patient taught me that love, it turns out, can exalt us and confound us, but it can also, literally, break our hearts.

He was a thin man in his late seventies, a mop of unruly gray hair on his head. He came into the emergency room one evening, unable to catch his breath and complaining of severe chest pain. An EKG was rapidly obtained and showed concerning peaks and valleys of electrical activity. Troponin levels were rapidly increasing in his blood. TC, it appeared, was having a heart attack.

Image courtesy of Med Chaos

Though still in the early stages of my medical training, I knew what would come next. In rapid succession, TC would be rushed to the cardiac catheterization lab, and a stent would be placed in his coronary arteries, restoring desperately needed blood flow to his heart. He would recover. His loving wife and adult children would visit him in the hospital. In a few days he would return home.

I was wrong. Try as they might, TC’s doctors were unable to find any blocked arteries in his heart. With nothing to stent open, TC was admitted to the medicine ward for careful observation. Miraculously, his condition stabilized.

The next morning he was feeling better. Not wanting to forego his calisthenics, I found him walking along the bustling hospital corridor, pausing briefly outside each room to greet his fellow patients. As I corralled him back to his room for morning rounds, I couldn’t help but notice the gold wedding ring hanging from a length of frayed twine around his neck. He caught my gaze and smiled, “pretty, isn’t it?”

Lowering himself carefully to his bed, he explained why he no longer wore the ring on his finger. His wife, he lingered on the word, had died almost three months ago. His children, long since grown, had come home for a while, but were now back to their own lives. He’d considered moving into a smaller place—less lonely he figured—but he couldn’t bear the thought of discarding any of her things.

Later that day, TC went for an echocardiogram which immediately revealed his diagnosis.

He had Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, also known as “broken heart syndrome.” It is a rare condition, but strikes most commonly after a period of great emotional turmoil. Marked by chest pain and shortness of breath, the initial presentation is not at all dissimilar to a heart attack, so committed in its mimicry that the EKG and blood findings are often identical.

Although the pathogenesis of Takotsubo cardiomyopathy is not completely understood, it is postulated that adrenaline, released in times of great emotional distress, may overwhelm and eventually damage the heart. With enough damage, the heart breaks, contorting itself into a characteristic shape—wide at the bottom with a distinctively narrow neck. The shape resembles a Japanese takotsubo pot, a vessel historically used to trap octopus.

As a trainee in the field of medicine, my classroom preparation taught me to be objective—to plumb the pertinent facts of a patient’s history and physical exam in order to provide effective treatment. But it is patients like TC who teach me that good doctoring requires something more. Though less tangible, it is clear that one’s physical and emotional well-being are inextricably linked.

Several days later, heart ostensibly healed, TC was ready to return home. He stepped into the elevator, turned, and waved goodbye. A gold ring shone brightly on his finger.

Photo credit: Chandrahadi Junarto

 

Categories
Emotion Empathy General Narrative

Repost: Stories of Suffering

As the MSPress Executive Board transitions, we bring you a post from past! Enjoy the work of one of our emeritus writers, Sara Rendell.

I am a medical student because I love questions. After a blood vessel takes a punch, what causes the platelet pile-up? What makes people blink, gag, cough, or sneeze? Why is cat litter as scary as alcohol for a pregnant woman?

Some medical questions are unanswered. Yet, science promises progress. With enough grant-funded work in labs and clinics, scientists can describe new diseases. Medicine will show where illness happens, researchers will explain how it happens, and epidemiologists will predict who it is more likely to happen to and when it could happen to them. Even with all of this knowledge, there is one question I do not expect my medical training to answer.

While I go to lectures, practice interview skills, and learn how to diagnose and prescribe, people endure pain, distress, and loss, and I can’t explain why. Why do people suffer?

Photo courtesy of drp
Photo courtesy of drp

I can look to people who suffer for answers. It is not hard to find written first-person narratives of suffering. In these narratives, protagonists are often cast in two roles: the suffering fighter and the wise sufferer.

As Kathlyn Conway discusses in her essay, “The Cultural Story of Triumph”, the narrative of a “suffering” fighter dominates over other stories of illness. Illness becomes a journey to physical cure. Where physical cure is not possible, illness is cast as a path to wisdom, a form of moral development. The patient becomes a traveler who should somehow be “uncomplaining, strong, and brave” on this journey (Conway, 2007).

“Illness is a chance to show us your guns and triumph!” the medical culture seems to say.

If society expects sick people to be “fighters” what else do we expect from them? I think of S, a 62-year old woman with osteosarcoma, who put on lipstick while her skin was sinking deeper into the spaces between her bones. “Can’t let this cancer make me ugly honey,” she said as she applied her makeup in the mirror. What does it mean that S’s fight against cancer involved cosmetic routines?

The idea that people grow in strength or wisdom while suffering is familiar to me. As essayist, Pico Iyer describes in “The Value of Suffering”, suffering can be a doorway to compassion, loss can be an invitation to appreciate nuance. Yet, my intestines tangle when I imagine telling a patient who suffers, “What an opportunity to unfurl in wisdom!” Even if I did not say this out loud, I wonder what my expectations might communicate.

Untitled 2 copyLast year, my close friend J died of metastatic breast cancer while 27 weeks pregnant with a boy. During her first trimester, we would lie on my floor and look up at the ceiling when retching woke her in the morning. Over the next few months we went to her prenatal visits and giggled over possible baby names. Then, she stopped eating and her nails turned yellow. Her doctor said, “Hopefully it’s hepatitis.” He didn’t bother to tell us what it hopefully wasn’t. Her yellow vomit and “liver nodules” explained. She was 24 years old when she passed away and left behind her husband and 3-year old son.

That was an inexplicable catastrophe. But J’s husband needed to believe that somehow God had planned this. If he believed that her death was one example of many forces that roll over us the way tires would ants trying to cross a highway, then how could he continue with day-to-day life? How would he keep being his son’s Papa?

Even after I gather years of experience with suffering, I do not expect to be able to explain it. I do know that the stories we tell about suffering can influence how we relate to patients.

My expectations form the questions I ask and the things I attend to.  Imagine me telling a patient, “Fight your cancer, but stay pretty.  Also, grow spiritually so you can teach me through your suffering.”  That feels like a lot of pressure to put on someone who is ill, even if it is unspoken. If I look for a suffering fighter in a patient who cannot cast herself in that role, I risk disrespecting her experience. If I try to learn wisdom from a patient who does not see his illness as a journey to moral development, I might disregard his life story.

Medical school teaches me to synthesize and simplify information.  The more narratives I hear, the more I feel a desire to string them together along a unifying theme.  Cultivating attention to less common stories about suffering and loss reminds me to listen when I long to explain.

Sources:
Conway, Kathlyn. 2007. Beyond Words: Illness and the Limits of Expression. University of New Mexico Press. Albuquerque

Iyer, Pico. 2013. The Value of Suffering. New York Times.
Featured image:
“After a Night Shift” by Stephanie Scott

Categories
General Narrative Patient-Centered Care

Lunch Chats

It’s 6:30 AM. I have one hour to see four patients before morning rounds. This seems like ample time, and it is—it just isn’t the best time. My patients are still sleepy. They aren’t in the mood to listen to me talk about meal planning or exercise regimens (at the crack of dawn, I wouldn’t be either). Each morning, I wake my patients up, ask them pertinent questions, and perform a focused physical exam. Then, I let them get back to sleep. Yes, I would see them again during morning rounds, but no, seeing them twice is not enough. I realized early in my clinical education that if I really want to make a difference, I need to visit my patients after lunch.

I was motivated to visit my patients in the afternoon after hearing the following wise words from one of my attendings: “the patient you see at 7:00 AM is very different from the one you see at noon.”

In the morning, sometimes as early as 6:00 AM, patients are sleepy. It’s much harder to engage them in conversation. In the middle of the day, after they’ve eaten lunch, they are often looking for an engaging visitor.

When I started third year, I wanted to heal every issue on my patients’ problem lists. Inpatient medicine is driven by a patient’s “chief complaint,” and the management of long-term health issues is left for follow-up with a primary care provider. This is a practical system, but it is still unsettling. I was never convinced that Ms. B, who came in with a toe ulcer, would continue to manage her diabetes with a “low carbohydrate diet” and regular glucose checks.

When Ms. B was on my team’s service a few months ago, our daily visits to her room generally entailed checking the status of her toe. She received accuchecks every four hours, and her blood sugars were generally well-controlled, but would she really continue to eat this healthy at home? I wanted to find out. After I started visiting Ms. B multiple times a day, I learned so much more about her health obstacles. I learned that she often starved herself the entire day and binged on one “feast” at night. She thought she was being healthy by only eating one meal! I explained that her eating pattern was messing with her body’s metabolism, and I gave her a presentation I had made a few years ago about affordable healthy food choices available at the local supermarket.

Attendings and residents work extremely hard, and they don’t often have enough time to sit with every patient and discuss life choices. As a medical student, I have this time. I’ll never know if Ms. B implemented my suggestions, but I do know she left the hospital with more than a healed toe. Since then, I’ve been visiting my patients after lunch…I’m always surprised by how much I learn.

 

Photo courtesy of Am Kaiser

Categories
Clinical Narrative

Why I Stand with Planned Parenthood

After writing “ Storytelling and Patient Advocacy,” I cuddled up to a cup of warm coffee and reflected on the various moments in my life that inspired me or motivated me to take action. I thought about my story; why I applied to medical school and why I have certain research interests. Then I asked why I want to improve access to and the quality of reproductive health care. Immediately I thought about the question friends and family frequently ask me: “Why would you support Planned Parenthood if you want to help women?” My answer is this story:

As a third year medical student who will soon be applying to an obstetrics and gynecology residency, I am afraid.  The recent violence in my community and continued aggression against Planned Parenthood suggests that aligning oneself with the organization is risky.  Becoming an obstetrician gynecologist (OB/GYN) has been my dream since elementary school, so I feel anxious when family members share concerns that publicly supporting Planned Parenthood ensures I will not match to an OB/GYN program.  Will standing with Planned Parenthood keep me out of a program?  Is it OK to discuss abortion training on a residency interview?  Or do I need to use code like, “What family planning training opportunities are available?”  And in light of the attack on the clinic in Colorado, is my life in danger?  A pro-reproductive rights provider and avid supporter of Planned Parenthood wrote to me, stating that she is afraid to rotate at their clinics for fear of an attack.  She hauntingly added, “The terrorism is working.”  I almost never employ self-censorship, yet I too hesitated to continue to develop a professional relationship with Planned Parenthood.  Even scarier is to discuss that affiliation publicly.  A friend reminded me that in times of confusion or fear, it is best to have a mantra that can elicit courage.  My inner voice reminds me, “Be a rock star woman.”

A couple years ago, after my reproductive and endocrinology module, and after being influenced by readings about sexually transmitted disease (STD) pathology, I requested a full STD screen during my annual well-woman exam. The nurse told me, “We don’t do that here. You’ll have to go somewhere like Planned Parenthood.”  I left embarrassed and did not follow-up with another clinic.  Enter my third year clerkships when, on a pediatric service, my team treated a 15 year old female who was 21 weeks pregnant presenting with “vaginal pain and fainting during sex.”  I was ecstatic to finally manage an obstetrics (OB) case, and I excitedly took a medical history.  While writing my notes, I overheard a group of nurses say that this girl would not have “gotten herself pregnant” if she knew how to use a condom.  I interjected that the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology now recommends long-acting intrauterine devices (IUDs) as the leading contraceptive option for adolescents because it is the most effective, safe, private, and does not rely on user consistency (ACOG, 2012).  Three nurses and a resident mistakenly retorted that IUDs cannot be given to adolescents or females who have not been pregnant due to increased risks to the uterus.  Because an intrauterine device is placed inside of the uterus during an office pelvic exam and contains a small string that trails into the vagina, old theories warned about uterine perforation, pelvic inflammatory disease (PID), and subsequent infertility.  They are wrong.  There are no cases of infertility following IUD use, no increased absolute risks for PID, and minimal incidence of uterine perforation (ACOG, 2012; ARHP, 2015).  Shockingly, this has been known in the medical community for more than a decade, yet there continues to be widespread ignorance about it among healthcare professionals.

I observed a similar case during a later clinical experience.  I listened to the physician refuse an IUD to a young woman with a history of unintended pregnancies based on his belief that adolescents are promiscuous and will develop pelvic infections.  His words, “We don’t offer those here.  You’ll have to go somewhere else like Planned Parenthood.”  Do you see the pattern?  It is no secret that judgement, ignorance, and prejudice exist in healthcare.   What is a medical student to do when faced with blatant disregard for clinical guidelines and scientific evidence that has been undisputed by science for over a decade?  I decided to contribute to the advancement of research and education by volunteering with Planned Parenthood, an organization that provides safe, up-to-date, and judgement-free care.

I regularly volunteer at Planned Parenthood as a patient escort, walking patients from their vehicles to the clinic doors.  Let me set the scene.  My local office is visited by anywhere from three to more than twenty protestors daily.  They stand on the sidewalk mostly shouting and waving signs at passing cars.  A few people silently pray with a rosary.  The first time I arrived, I had to excuse myself to the restroom because the hateful screams of “Baby killer with blood all over your hands!” were too shocking for me to bear.  Eventually I became better equipped to disregard protestors. However, that took time, and if I, a student medical provider, was mortified when my gynecologist’s office told me to go to Planned Parenthood for a standard STD screen, can you imagine the emotions a young patient experiences when walking from their car at a Planned Parenthood clinic, listening to protestors scream?  So I stand for hours in front of a Planned Parenthood clinic, deflecting the endless onslaught of insulting remarks, in the hopes that people can feel a little more secure receiving an STD screen, a pap smear, an IUD placement, or yes, an abortion.

The fact remains that Planned Parenthood is a leading provider of reproductive health care services.  A central focus is prevention, encompassing STD and cancer screening as well as contraception.  They provide prenatal services and references for those choosing to pursue adoption, in addition to abortion services and other reproductive health care.  The Guttmacher Institute, another source of global sexual and reproductive health, reported in July 2015 that half of all pregnancies each year (greater than 3 million) are unintended; the same statistic that has existed for two decades (Guttmacher, 2015).  More than half of women of reproductive age (13-44 years old; 38 million) need contraceptive services, and 20 million of those women require publicly funded services and supplies.  In addition, the average Planned Parenthood health center serves significantly more women seeking contraceptive services than all other publicly-funded safety-net clinics.

An interview on Fresh Air with Jonathan Eig, author of The Birth of the Pill: How Four Crusaders Reinvented Sex and Launched a Revolution, made me think more about Planned Parenthood’s role in women’s health care.  In the book he describes the challenges scientists and Margaret Sanger faced when trying to develop a “magic pill that would allow women to control when and if they got pregnant”—Wouldn’t that be great?  Oh wait, we thankfully have that now in pill, patch, injection, implant, and intrauterine device forms.  The developers of the pill studied progesterone’s effect on inhibiting ovulation under the guise that they were studying infertility treatment.  I wonder if the current, hostile climate surrounding Planned Parenthood will later be compared to the ludicrousness of 1950s-era United States, when our country outlawed female contraception, while allowing men to easily purchase condoms.  When I learn about the backlash surrounding the development of birth control, arguably the most important invention of the 20th century, how could I let threats prevent me from supporting an organization that is one of the few to consistently provide safe and evidence-based services without judgement?  The answer is, I cannot.  My career goal is to help women access and achieve the best reproductive care.  That is why I stand with Planned Parenthood.

References:

American College of Obstetrics & Gynecology. (2012). ACOG committee opinion no. 539: Adolescents and Long-Acting Reversible Contraception: Implants and Intrauterine Devices. Obstet Gynecol. 117(6):1472-83.

Association of Reproductive Health Professionals (2015). The Facts About Intrauterine Contraception [Fact Sheet]. Retrieved from http://www.arhp.org/Publications-and-Resources/Clinical-Fact-Sheets/The-Facts-About-Intrauterine-Contraception-

Guttmacher Institute. (2015). Publicly Funded Family Planning Services in the United States [Fact Sheet]. Retrieved from http://www.guttmacher.org/pubs/fb_contraceptive_serv.html

Featured image:
Me (far left) escorting guests to the annual Planned Parenthood of Southwest and Central Florida Fundraising Gala.

Categories
General Narrative Public Health

Storytelling and Patient Advocacy

Yesterday, I received a perfectly-timed message on a group thread. My friend wrote that she loves patient advocacy.

“Me too,” I thought, as I filed away notes from a Planned Parenthood of Southwest and Central Florida Meeting hosted by the Leadership Action Team (LAT). What was the purpose of that meeting? To train volunteers on how to employ storytelling in their advocacy work. Planned Parenthood trains all of its staff members, and now volunteers, in the “Story of Self” curriculum created by Get Storied® , which is a program designed to teach businesses how to create social change through the art of storytelling.

The meeting began with introductions and a moment to safely process the recent shooting in our hometown. A young volunteer explained how the event affected her and her family:

I learned about the shooting on Facebook…And honestly, all I saw was, ‘Massive Shooting,’ and thought, ‘Oh, another shooting,’ and kept scrolling. I didn’t understand the gravity of the situation, until that night while watching the news with my mom. I looked over at my mom and she was crying. She just said, ‘I am afraid for you.’ She’s never before expressed concern about my activities. But now she says, ’I am afraid for you.’

This volunteer was young, but her voice carried a surprising amount of assuredness. I felt her confusion and fear. The next attendee shared their story, and then the next, and so forth as the meeting progressed.

We learned that there are three key components to one’s story of self: a challenge, a choice, and an outcome. Zac, the chair of the LAT, shared his story of self, which described the healthy relationship with his mother and the openness with which she educated him regarding sexual matters when he was an adolescent male. The two-to-three-minute story, complete with a joke about educational materials containing graphic penis pictures, ended powerfully with the line,

When I walk into a Planned Parenthood, it’s the same kind of environment my mom created for me for talking about sex.

We received our first assignment, which was to reflect on the experiences in our lives that have shaped the values which call us to leadership. The program will later have us refine the various details of our stories, practice in one-on-one and group sessions, identify ways in which we plan to use storytelling in our advocacy work, and take action. We had five minutes to silently reflect.

Ok, what is my campaign? Women’s health. Yeah, but what specifically? To help women access and achieve the best reproductive health care possible. Nice. So why do you want to do that? Because reproductive health is the most important thing in the world! Ok, but why?

Figures of maternal morbidity and mortality popped into my head. I could see again the absence of a clitoris and labia in my Nigerian patient who underwent female genital mutilation as a young girl. I remembered the way the vaginal introitus feels beneath my hands—stretched and strong—as a baby’s head begins to crown. The voice of an adolescent girl echoed, “I mean I want to have sex, but like, I’m not a slut.”

It is easy for me to think of patient stories that depict why I am pursuing a career in Obstetrics and Gynecology. But a story of self is just that. A story of SELF. I struggled to think of inspiring personal experiences.

Time is up! No.

Each person in my small group shared their story and received feedback. My turn circled around and I rambled on about women’s health. I managed to state two strong lines, “I volunteer at Planned Parenthood because it still remains the one place to offer judgement-free care. Not even my own gynecologist can say that.” But my story lacked focus and a compelling personal example.

That night after receiving my friend’s text, I began to think more about the meaning of patient advocacy. As a medical student, I think my primary role in patient advocacy is to ensure that my medical team knows about our patients’ health histories and needs. During my internal medicine/family medicine clerkship, in order to help care for a patient, I compiled a short document of excerpts from the World Health Organization, Centers for Disease Control, and American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology regarding HIV prophylaxis treatment in pregnant women with negative HIV status who have regular, unprotected sex with an HIV positive partner. In that instance, helping my resident defend her treatment plan was my way of advocating for my patient’s health. Patient advocacy means that I volunteer monthly to escort patients safely into Planned Parenthood clinics. It is the reason why I study exercise and pregnancy, so that I can advocate for pregnant athletes seeking to find a balance in the pre- and post-partum periods. Additionally, patient advocacy means that I write on the MSPress Blog about topics that matter.

Stories in medicine can break stigma, help people relate to the struggles of others, and empower someone to raise their voice.  Stories identify why we should care about an issue, and can inspire others to take action. Although I do not yet have an organized understanding of the many personal experiences that inspire me daily to fight for reproductive health care, I think I am well on my way to becoming a strong patient advocate. Fortunately, I do have a clear goal: support the improvement of access to reproductive healthcare and higher quality of reproductive healthcare for all.

Quoted persons in this paper gave permission to be on the record.

Featured image:
Story by Alexander Affleck

Categories
Lifestyle Narrative Reflection

Latest Entry

The in-class assignment was simple: write a short paragraph of your thoughts about narrative medicine. But after ten minutes, my paper was a mess; pen lines angrily crossed out sentences that had been started but not finished, my usually neat penmanship was messy, my vocab unsure. My writing screamed hesitation. After begrudgingly turning in my assignment, I realized just how long it had been since I had written in my journal, which I had left tucked away in a nightstand in my childhood bedroom. I thought it was an appropriate place to leave the book—covered in cheesy flowers with a creased binding—that had chronicled my high school and college years. As I was packing for medical school, it seemed almost off-putting at the time to continue to chronicle the next chapter of my life—what I naively perceived to be the real challenges of medical school—on the same page as my previous entry, in which I complained about the trials and tribulations of learning how to drive stick shift and tackling organic chemistry. Instead, tucked away in my new bedroom, is a leather-bound journal, a gift I received for medical school, emblazoned with the words “FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS.” Every inch of it is covered in cartoon birds. It has been sitting in a drawer since I moved in, untouched.

As I juggle this new chapter as a busy first year med student, that seemingly simple assignment reminds me how much I miss, and clearly need, a nightly journaling routine as my outlet to find peace with my hurried thoughts at the end of a hectic day. It is all too easy to fall into the daily hustle and bustle of med school life such that every day seems almost like the one before. Study, extracurriculars, preceptorship, sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. All too often, before I fall asleep, I find myself falling into the trap of using my phone to mindlessly relax; catching up on my Facebook newsfeed, scrolling through photos on Instagram—or, if we’re being totally honest here—catching up on celebrity gossip (let’s just say, I’ve definitely been keeping up with the Kardashians). But by the time I “unplug,” my brain is often wired. So much for unwinding.

Yet, even as I write this entry (yes, write, not type!), I understand how relaxing it is to unwind and take the time to process the day’s events with the written word. To really chronicle how every day is not like the one before, but how each day actually brings a new perspective as a result of what I had done that day: conversing with a new classmate, grasping the latest material in class, practicing the hands-on skills I’ve obtained in my preceptorship, etc. I see how important writing about these experiences is for me; to have something tangible to look back upon, years after medical school. To read through each chapter—to remember how I had stumbled when learning to measure blood pressure and take a patient history—just as I reflect now when I read back on my teenage struggles.

It’s important that we, as future physicians, find whatever it is that provides us with this sense of mindfulness, whether it be exercise, meditation, spirituality, etc., and hold on to it. It is through this self-awareness that we can see not only how we have changed, but even more importantly, to find a moment’s peace in the midst of the commotion that each day brings as we pursue careers in medicine.

So, when I go back to my childhood home to visit my family, I’ll be sure to pack up my journal.

Featured image:
12.2.2010 <homework> 321/365 by Phil Roeder

Categories
Clinical Narrative

Did you hear any zebras in there?

“Every child you encounter is a divine appointment.” – Wess Stafford

I made a new friend today. He was sitting on the floor organizing puzzle pieces. I took a seat beside him to take in his perspective. It had been awhile since I joined a patient on this level, but it set the tone of our relationship immediately.

I made a new friend who was excited to share with me. He looked over at me and asked if I wanted to help him sort. “It’s more fun down here, isn’t it? I can teach you where these go,” he offered.

I made a new friend whose favorite things about himself are his freckles, despite what the kids at school say about them. He winked at his mom as we continued to sort the puzzle pieces. “I think your best thing is your smile. It is almost like my mom’s!” he remarked.

I made a new friend who is stronger than most adults I have met. He pointed at a puzzle piece and told me that he has “been sick since he was as tiny as this puzzle piece.”

I realized my new friend just wanted someone to include him in his case. As he recounted his story with vigor, he nodded toward his mother and critiqued, “Usually people like you only want to know what she has to say.”

My new friend showed me the scar on his head and the one across his chest. “I am proud of them,” he stated. “Mom told me I am the superstar of the family… but I think she does more than I do.” He shrugged.

I made a new friend who saw me as an ally. I was amazed at how quickly he trusted me; after all of the doctors he had met before me. “I am not afraid of you,” he said. “Mom says that you want to help me feel better, and mom is always right.”

My new friend had many questions and I did my best to explain why we were meeting. He looked at me with trusting brown eyes and asked, “So are you going to listen to my insides with your special headphones?” I nodded and he held his shirt up for me.

I made a new friend who found humor in a hard situation. “Did you hear any zebras in there?” His eyes were wide with excitement as I put my stethoscope back around my neck.

My new friend challenged me to adapt my exam routine and inspired me to work on my creativity. I let him try my “headphones” out on me. “I think you have some monkeys in you! Let’s see what mom has!” he cheered.

I made a new friend whose heartbeat was weak, but whose heart was full of kindness. As he held the bottle of gummy vitamins above his head, he exclaimed, “These are way cooler than the pills my mom tries to hide in my applesauce! I am going to make you my favorite snack sometime. I won’t put anything bad in it, don’t worry.”

When it was time to say goodbye to my new friend, he gave me a big squeeze and told me he thought we would be good friends. “Next time I will feed the zebras before we come so you can hear them better!”

Featured image:
zebra by SigNote Cloud

Categories
Narrative Reflection

Little Flickers: How Medicine Truly Connects Us

“See the little flicker?” the doctor asked, as she tilted the ultrasound screen and pointed to the tiny movement. The patient leaned forward, squinting, trying to decipher the gray and black pixels that showed she was now a mother. “That’s the heartbeat,” her doctor explained. “Right there,” she pointed again, this time zooming in even further. The patient nodded as she tried to contain her excitement. She smiled with one of those tight-lipped grins as her eyes widened, as if joy was actually bursting out of her. Her husband chuckled at her wild expression and squeezed her hand. “It’s okay,” her doctor said. “Be excited! This is exciting!” And with that word of permission, the expecting mother squealed, just a little, and calmed herself again. “It’s our first, you know, and my sister just had a girl and I wanted our kids to be able to grow up together and we just didn’t know if it would happen this fast, and,” she paused to catch her breath. “Sorry, I just can’t believe we get to start buying baby stuff!”

I looked at the screen again, at the little flicker of light, at the little piece of white against black that would someday have a lot of “baby stuff” foisted upon it. It was one of the earliest pregnancies I had seen on ultrasound – in fact, I had only seen one other scan done at the same gestational age. It was striking how identical this scan was to the first one I had seen, months earlier. The screen had looked exactly the same, with the crown-rump length of the tiny embryo measuring the same, with the same shape of black fluid around white tissue. I thought back to that day, to the tiny portable ultrasound screen so far from home. Instead of an antiseptic outpatient OB/GYN clinic in temperate California, the first scan had been done on the dirt floor of a little hut in Central America.

It was a typical clinic day in rural Panama – humid, muddy, with lines of patients waiting to be seen. Working over the summer with the non-profit organization Floating Doctors, I saw many pregnant women come to clinic for prenatal care. Traveling to indigenous island communities, where most patients have no other access to health care, we would set up makeshift clinics and see as many patients as possible. It is common for women in the Ngobe communities to have as many as ten kids; oftentimes they start having children when they are teenagers themselves. Unsurprisingly, there was a lot of prenatal ultrasound scanning to be done.

When I saw this particular patient, whose ultrasound was done so early in the pregnancy, the crown-rump length was the same as the patient’s I would see months later at home. This woman was 32 and had five children. Her youngest, a two-year-old girl, leaned on her mother’s chest as I scanned, taking a pause in her whining to stare at the screen. She didn’t understand what it was, but her mother squeezed her excitedly anyway as I pointed at the little flicker, the unmistakable heartbeat. Even though they already had a big family, even though it was miserably sweaty sitting on the floor in our little ultrasound hut, and even though the toddler was getting fussy, this woman had the unmistakable grin of sheer excitement.

Talking to the pregnant women in Panama, either during the scan or translating during the physician checkup, I imagined the lives these babies would have. It was an easy thing to think about, seeing so many children running around and playing as their parents waited in line. The kids were a handful to organize; it was no easy feat keeping them far enough away from the clinic to avoid distractions, but close enough to organize whole family visits when it was their turn. They played muddy games of soccer or baseball, chasing each other around and asking us for highly coveted stickers. They were so full of energy, so happy and so free. The mothers usually didn’t find these games as amusing as I did; they were exhausted, overwhelmed, and just trying to get the visits done so they could go home. I can’t begin to imagine the strength and resilience it takes for those mothers to care for so many children, and oftentimes other family members, with such limited resources and support.

There was a mural painted on the side of a school in one of the communities we visited. The mural was a giant world map, not particularly accurate in terms of scale or geography, but vibrantly colored and decorated. When I saw it, I thought it was quite fitting, as I was working in a team with students and doctors from all over the world, living in a country I had never been to before, speaking a foreign language every day. When I thought about its place in the community, however, I began to wonder what it meant to them. These villages are isolated, by geography and lack of transportation and resources. The children who seemed so free to me would most likely find it difficult to leave their small village, if they ever wanted to. I wondered what they thought of that colorful map on the wall, whether it was an abstract concept of the world beyond their borders, or whether they dreamed of a truly unrestricted future. The child back home in Orange County, of course, might dream of just the opposite – wishing the world were not so vast and intimidating, wishing the world stretched just to the end of the block, where everything in between was familiar and safe.

These are the things I wonder about, the things that keep me thinking about certain patients long after they’ve left. These are the things that connect patients, at least in my mind, despite the vast differences in their lives. Ultimately, the job in medicine is to focus on the patient, or the ultrasound image, but it’s not always easy, or in the patient’s best interest, to tune out the context.

We are trained to look at that little flicker of a heartbeat, measure its rhythm and pace, and watch as the baby grows and the flicker gets stronger. We are trained to look at every patient, every heartbeat, the same – without bias, without judgment, without assumptions. At the same time, we can’t ignore the world around us, the world that we are working in and the world that our patients live in. We can’t ignore the fact that differences between two patients’ cultures, communities and access to resources may make them seem worlds apart. But mostly, we can’t ignore how strikingly similar we all are at the start – just little flickers of black and white, so simply alive. Maybe if we try to remember that, all the differences we see every day will become just parts of the mural – not terribly accurate, certainly open to interpretation, but mostly just a beautiful mess of color.

 

Featured image:
Panama Clinic, courtesy of Leigh Goodrich

Categories
Clinical Emotion Lifestyle Narrative

A letter from a patient with anorexia nervosa

Dear Doctor,

What I need from you is validation that what I am experiencing is real; recognize this is more than just a burden for me.

At first it was a rush. The best feeling I’d ever had. I was getting compliments, attention, and my jeans felt wonderfully loose.  But it didn’t take long until it became everything; an obsession.  My eating disorder (ED) has become all I think about.  Every second of every day is consumed with what I eat, what I avoid, how I can avoid it, when I will exercise and for how long. I can’t escape.  Even if I actually wanted to gain weight back, it’s not that easy.

I know you might understand, but at least acknowledge that it’s not about the food. The truth is, when you say it’s about the food, it’s more tangible, easier to categorize, like a patient with a broken wrist.  People think that if I “just eat a sandwich” I will be fine, but this is far from accurate.

Sometimes ED hints at me, other times it screams. Either way, ED is a part of my life; it is a part of who I am right now. I have a deep connection to this diagnosis. Because of this, I will defend and validate ED, and conjure any excuse to hold on to this relationship just a little longer. For patients like me, ED becomes another member of the family, the third wheel in a relationship, or even another personality who needs attention.

I still struggle often, but I have good days too.  I am not just another girl with anorexia.  I’m a young woman who never takes life too seriously, loves road trips and playing the piano, and who fights back against anorexia every single day.  I know it’s your mission, but you cannot fix me. Only I can do that and I am going to need your support.

So right now, take a seat on my rollercoaster, listen to me, and let’s get to the end of this ride.

Sincerely,

Your ED patient

 

* Inspired by a loved one

Featured image:
Anorexia. by Mary Lock

 

Categories
Lifestyle Narrative Reflection

Lonely in a Room Full of People

Stock phrases:

“Hey mon, you alright?”
“You have a blessed day.”
“How is your morning walk pretty ladies?”
“Yeah mon, no worries. Everything alright.”

These ‘stock phrases’ are just a few of the things I heard each and every day while staying in Negril, Jamaica. I travelled to the island to take a short vacation and attend a destination wedding this past month. While on the island, I was pleasantly greeted by the local Jamaicans any time I left the bed and breakfast I stayed at. I was surprised at first at how friendly the locals were – I had heard from friends to be cautious of the crime in Jamaica. Nevertheless, I always responded to the locals, asking them how they were.

A few days into my trip I was with a Jamaican driver named Patcha, headed to another part of the island. I chatted with Patcha for quite a while. I asked him about his culture – his views on marriage, money, economy, etc. He was open and never held anything back. I mentioned to him how friendly I thought the Jamaicans all were. He kind of chuckled and asked if that was out of the ordinary for me. I told him America was different.

I went on to tell him that I am guilty of being unfriendly at times; not intentionally, but just by habit. He didn’t quite understand. I told him how common it is in America to be walking in a hallway or down a street with one other person and for neither of them to say hello to one another. Some people even say they feel lonely in a room full of people. He burst out laughing.

I started laughing too. Why do we do this? What stops us from just initiating a conversation with others? He asked why this is so. I started thinking and said, “Maybe it is because Americans are too stressed. We forget about other people because we are kind of on a mission each day.” Patcha responded, “Us Jamaicans are stressed too, we need to have food on the table every night.” I bit my tongue remembering Patcha had told me earlier that many Jamaicans live in poverty. He told me workers at some of the larger all-inclusive resorts on the island make only about ten US dollars a day and smaller establishments tend not to pay their workers on time or abuse their power over their employees in other ways.

Clearly, stress is a problem in Jamaica just as it is in America. So why is it only in the US where we insist on emotionally walling ourselves off? Why do we stray away from human contact when it is so easy to make a connection with another human? I couldn’t give Patcha an answer. I have been a shy person for the majority of my life, but by no means am I scared to strike up a conversation with anyone. When I returned to the United States I noticed myself falling into old habits, just politely smiling at the person next to me in line for coffee, but never saying hi or asking the how their day is going.

I wanted to write this blog post to hold myself accountable and also challenge my readers to break the silence. Say hello to strangers. Dare yourself to give someone a compliment. Make yourself more human.

As future medical professionals, part of our responsibility is to make our patients comfortable. I will count this challenge as daily practice for my career. I’ve seen many doctors put on a positive attitude for their patients, only to find them miserable when engaging in other social interactions. What makes a stranger in the grocery store any different from a patient in the hospital?

I hope this short story will help readers see that sometimes we all need a reality check. Whatever the reason is, our culture is heading down a path of loneliness, instead of solidarity. Let’s all take responsibility for this and make changes to unite one another.

Featured Image:
Humanity by Kevin Dooley