One summer morning in our senior living center, Abington Manor, I chose Cheerios instead of scrambled eggs. My tablemates had already decided on the hot menu item. But they heard me.
“Oh! Cheerios!”
“I forgot about Cheerios!”
“Can I have them, too?”
“See what you started,” the dining room server scolded. “You know they usually don’t remember.”
The nurse’s murmur was gentle: “Dr. Bui, Ms. Sanchez is still waiting for her Pap test.”
More than an hour earlier, I’d left Ms. Sanchez waiting in an exam room while I rushed to see the rest of the patients on my schedule. And then I’d forgotten about her.
I’d had the inevitable difficult moments in my early career as a family doctor, but this marked a new low.
Recovering From Moral Injury Read More »
The year was 2008, and I was hospitalized for extensive pre-op testing. Awaiting me was a long and risky operation to try to save part of my left kidney. A well-meaning but errant interventional radiologist had ablated it with alcohol. Not just once, but twice!
“You’re Early . . .” Read More »
Dad and I sit in the conference room at Hanover General Hospital when the surgeon knocks on the door and enters. “You must be Eugenia Miller’s husband,” he says to my father.
“Yes, I’m Harry,” my father murmurs while he stands and extends his hand in the direction of the doctor.
“And I’m her daughter, Kathy,” I say as I offer my hand.
“I wish I had better news to share with you,” the doctor states as he looks in the direction of the window at the end of the room.
Like a rose
The nurse says
Of this new, unexpected opening into my body,
Fastening the pouch with expert hands
Deep red
Inside out
My hands tremble as I empty my
lunch of meatloaf and mashed potatoes
Rendered brown murky liquid
Into the toilet.
In his teens, the author discovered he had a genetic disorder that made him feel like a mistake…
The Quest of a Lifetime Read More »
As I approached retirement after 35 years of practicing head and neck surgical oncology, my new cardiologist suggested that the daily baby aspirin I had been taking for atrial fibrillation was no longer appropriate. “You should consider a convergent procedure,” he said. “A team of surgeons creates scars on the back of the heart near the left atrium and the pulmonary veins. Then they place a clip across your left atrial appendage, and I do an endocardial ablation a few weeks later. It should help.”
The Elephant on My Chest Read More »
My husband was recently hospitalized for a long and arduous cancer surgery. A few days post-surgery, one of his nurses told us that she had to leave early, but that a blonde lady would be coming in momentarily to relieve her. Sure enough, this other nurse comes in, having overheard this comment, and says, “I’m the blonde lady.” My husband noticed that every woman in there was blonde: the aforesaid nurse, the respiratory therapist and the physical therapist. My husband said, “Every woman in here is blonde. I guess it’s not a good time for a (dumb) blonde joke.” Everyone laughed.
I have been hospitalized many times: for a tonsillectomy, the extraction of impacted wisdom teeth, a hysterectomy, foot surgery, and five jaw surgeries. Each experience focused on a different body part, but each shared a common factor: fear.
Everything about the hospital frightened me. I didn’t like the overwhelming smell of antiseptic or the moans of other patients emanating from the surrounding rooms. I shuddered whenever a nurse approached my bed, convinced they were about to communicate bad news to me. I was afraid to move my left arm, fearful that I’d dislodge the IV and need to once again endure the pain of having it inserted. I shivered with anxiety over every encounter with the phlebotomist’s tubes and needles.
Dear readers,
I was just a few months into my first year of medical school when I got sick–feeling crummy, drinking glass after glass of water or orange juice, and peeing a lot. I ignored these symptoms for as long as I could, but finally had to admit that something was wrong and made my way to our student health service, where, on a Friday afternoon, I was given the diagnosis of diabetes and sent home, unmedicated.
The following Monday I was seen by an internist who quickly realized that, despite my age–thirty–I had juvenile-onset (type 1) diabetes. My pancreas was no longer producing the insulin my body needed. That meant that I would need to inject insulin. Forever.
June More Voices: Hospitalized Read More »
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