fostering the humanistic practice of medicine publishing personal accounts of illness and healing encouraging health care advocacy

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fostering the humanistic practice of medicine publishing personal accounts of illness and healing encouraging health care advocacy

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Step by Step

Anna Delamerced November 7, 2018 No Comments
Halfway through my third-year rotations, I was sitting in a hidden enclave in the children’s hospital, trying to eat my lunch and get a bit of rest. By that point in the year, the gray circles under my eyes were darker, my feet hurt more easily, my time was consumed by work and study. Is this all worth it? I often asked myself.

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Excuse Me?

Kyle Logan November 7, 2018 No Comments

The hospital café was a long walk from our classroom, so, as a group, some of us from the summer program walked there together for lunch. I was out front, with earbuds in, not paying attention, when I felt a slight tap on my shoulder. I turned to see an elderly woman. She was bent over and looked weary and lonely. I took out my earbuds and said, “Excuse me?”

She said, “I’m a veteran.” She showed me her badge. “Can you take me to get some food? I don’t have any money.” She said that after she ate, she

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I Quit!

Joan Greland-Goldstein November 6, 2018 4 Comments

I HATE nursing!

I was at Wernersville State Mental Hospital doing my three-month psychiatric rotation as part of my nursing program.

Deciding to leave school, I approached the phone with trepidation. I was nineteen years old, and I needed to convince my parents to let me quit.

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Gut Guidance

Aubry Koehler November 6, 2018 No Comments
I always knew that I wanted to be in medicine. When I was a child, I discovered a magazine story of a little boy named Dylan who received a heart transplant and asked my mother to read it to me over and over again. I loved the before, during and after progression that the narrative and glossy pictures charted: the blue-lipped child before the transplant, the over-the-shoulder shots and details of the operation, and the healthy child after. I was just as fascinated by the disease state as the wellness. Dylan, who was born with a hole in his heart, compelled me.
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House of Cards

Anne Thomas November 5, 2018 No Comments
Feeling the urge to void my bladder, I insert the catheter, but nothing comes out. Odd. That’s never happened before. I drink some water and, an hour later, I insert another catheter. Again, no urine appears, just mucus on the tip of the catheter.

I need to void. My whole body is screaming to void. I’m sweating profusely as my system looks for a way to get rid of the urine. I know my BP is rising as my body copes with this stress. I also know that whatever is happening is bad. Really bad. It could damage my

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A Lesson from Dad

Ronna L. Edelstein November 1, 2018 No Comments

In accordance with my faith, I lit a memorial candle for my beloved father this morning; it is four years today since he died in my arms. The candle will burn for more than twenty-four hours. Not only does it remind me of the grief I still feel, but it also represents the light that was my dad–and his fervent wish that I would persevere by embracing the opportunities that life offers.

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A Voice for Pain

Melina Manolas October 31, 2018 No Comments
 
When they come into the clinic, I sometimes catch a glimpse of them carefully adjusting their countenances, whether to conceal pain or to fashion an expression of it, I can’t yet tell. I’m still a medical student; I’m still learning. 
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The Little Voice Is Wrong

Henry Schneiderman October 20, 2018 No Comments

The little voice tells me that I am fraudulent. All the other doctors know more. They understand renal tubular acidosis. Even the residents (trainees) knew about ADAMTS13 antibody in TTP (Thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura, a blood disorder). Now, an article later, that fragment is addressed, but an ocean of ignorance beckons. How dare I do consultations in the ICU when I have never intubated anybody?

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My First Patient

Marc Hem Lee October 16, 2018 No Comments
 
We stood there for a moment of silence and trepidation. I was grateful that I wasn’t the one who had to make the first cut. To do that would mean presiding over this person’s transition from former human to current specimen. I am still unsure whether that sensitivity refers to myself or to the cadaver. Do we perform these dissections to study someone else, or are we studying ourselves?
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