We Are Morally Scarring Our Future Physicians
Have you ever had that experience when you think what you’re doing is futile, and that thought goes through your mind: “Why am I doing this? I’m torturing him. This feels wrong.”
Have you ever had that experience when you think what you’re doing is futile, and that thought goes through your mind: “Why am I doing this? I’m torturing him. This feels wrong.”
I feel like there are so many things to work on in medicine. I need to be more efficient at taking a history; I need to gather morning data more quickly; I should be better at chart review when I get a new admission; I need to be more thorough at following up on labs; I could write the H&P more quickly, and so on. I also feel, from time to time, I do poorly on one thing — maybe I stay at work way too long writing my H&P — and then I obsess over how I can get faster at it.
It’s 2 a.m., and the patient’s blood pressure is beginning to rapidly decrease. Every IV line is occupied by an antibiotic or IV fluids, and we are in need of a vasoactive medication. The nurse comes to my computer and sternly states, “We can no longer avoid it. I think the patient needs a central line.” I quickly say “okay,” but I don’t move. I am momentarily frozen by my unease with the bedside procedure ahead.
In an ideal world we would all die at home with our loved ones caring for us, slowly slipping away in our sleep into the placid beyond. But why doesn’t it happen this way? There’s a dignity to that way because of its organic simplicity. It’s how people used to die prior to modern medicine and before we started needing to always “fix the problem.”
Over the course of residency and fellowship training, it’s likely that almost all trainees will encounter veterans through rotations at Veterans Affairs (VA) facilities. With mandates from Title 38 and long-standing relationships with academic institutions nationwide, the Veterans Health Administration plays a significant role in shaping the education of future medical professionals.
As I reflect on the year that was, I am excited and yet terrified of what lies ahead. Intern year is unlike any other during which the training wheels—otherwise known as the short white coat—are abruptly stripped. The mannequins are traded for breathing patients, the co-signatures are traded for signatures, and the infamous “I am just the medical student” transitions to the equally unassuming “I am just the intern.” Here are my takeaways from the year that was.