- Home
- /
- Stories
Stories
Turning the Tables
My iPhone screams me awake, as it does every morning. Recently this incessant screeching has become less irritating, as I’ve grown more accustomed to the demands that clinical education makes on a third-year medical student. I begin my routine: shower, scrubs, microwaved breakfast sandwich, then out into the dark morning, actually looking forward to my day.
I’ve been on a roll in my new family-medicine rotation, enjoying my time with my supervising doctor and learning quickly under her tutelage. It feels as if it’s coming together—the pages upon pages of textbooks and notes replaced by real patients and newfound responsibilities.
Recurrence?
In bed, at midnight, nearly asleep, I roll from my back to my side. Suddenly, the universe spins. Or is it just my head spinning? If I were standing, I’d fall over.
I lie still, breathing, and waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Why am I so dizzy? I haven’t had any alcohol. I drank a lot of water today. I didn’t even take any of the medications in my cabinet that help me sleep.
Oh shit. A not-unfamiliar thought enters my head: Has the cancer gone to my brain?
The First Time
“KCE 357 to the Jerico Fire Department,” says the dispatch radio at our community’s volunteer fire department. I volunteer here as both an emergency medical technician (EMT) and a chaplain; I’m also the full-time pastor of an Episcopal congregation.
“Ambulance needed at 45 Lilac Court for the unresponsive person, possible cardiac arrest.”
This is a high-priority call, albeit one that is common in our small town.
I hop into my car, equipped with an orange nylon “jump kit” of medical supplies, and head for 45 Lilac Court, ready to begin treating the patient before the fire-department ambulance arrives.
What If…?
During my first two years of medical school, the service-learning program I most enjoyed was Sickle Cell Superheroes. This program matches medical students with teenagers (or “kiddos,” as I like to call them) who are transitioning from pediatric to adult hematology for management of their sickle-cell disease.
My kiddo was Harry, and I absolutely adored him.
“I Know You Don’t Want to Be Here…”
It’s been an interesting year. Eight months after having a large kidney stone removed, I was diagnosed with very early stage cancer—small, low grade, etc. The treatment (surgery) would very likely cure the cancer. The specter of cancer meant that I found this surgery physically easier, but emotionally much harder.
The aftermath of the surgery was interesting in unexpected ways, too.
Six months after surgery, at one of my periodic follow-up visits, I was sitting awkwardly at the end of the exam table, dressed in the standard patient gown and sheet, and waiting to see Becky, the nurse practitioner I’d been assigned to that day.
Playing the Odds
“The odds of anything going sideways are less than one in a hundred,” the cardiologist said.
I was only half listening—too busy signing the papers indemnifying the Medical Colossus against any undue outcomes from my pending cardiac catheterization and probable stent placement.
“Less than one in a hundred,” he repeated.
No problem, I thought.
“I Fell Out of the Sky”
It had happened before; the previous time, it was a phone call on a Tuesday morning. This time, the message came by email on a Friday.
“Do you remember me?” wrote the sender.
“Do I remember you?” I wrote back. “I think of you often and fondly, although it has been over twenty-five years since we last spoke, and thirty-four years since we first met.”
Finding Worthiness in Being Different
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
The first time I was asked this question, it didn’t occur to me that my answer might not be matched by a corresponding opportunity. In the years since, I’ve learned that the question should have been “What will you be allowed to be?”
Clean. Dry. Intact.
The bus is crowded today, and January sleet splashes against the windows. The damp of each of us thickens the air. I breathe in a miasma of germs and others’ breath. My scarf wets my face as the snow melts.
An eternity goes by before we reach the downtown stop. From here, I’ll take one more bus to get to the hospital where I work as a physician assistant on a team that treats infections involving blood vessels and the heart. I’m huddled an appropriate distance from the other commuters, my back to the wind.