I admit, third year has gotten to me.
This being nearly the end of third year, and this post only my 4th post on this well-intentioned blog, I can safely say that being a third year medical student takes over your life. It affords you next to zero time to keep up with your hobbies- good intentions be damned.
Thus far I have experienced- Obgyn, Medicine, Psych, Peds and Surgery. And, not to be dramatic or anything, I'm certain I will never be the same.
You will hear most third year medical students say that third year is a year of astonishing highs and soul-crushing lows. This, in my experience, is the gospel truth. The roller coaster of this last year has given me so much food for thought, a single blog post will (obviously) not be enough to explain it all.
However, I will start with my most recent rotation and work backward: Surgery.
Important caveat before I begin: This is as bad as it gets. I have many wonderful things to say- but not here. So bear with me please.
I already had a taste of surgery on Obgyn, which, as you may remember, did not make me surgery's biggest fan. However, I really had no idea of the torture awaiting me. This went beyond the Gawande scale (see previous post if confused). This decimated the scale.
Imagine a place where apathy toward patients is the rule rather than the exception, and backstabbing your fellow residents is just part of your everyday experience. Imagine feeling that whatever you had to offer is garbage and a waste of everyone's time. Imagine the physical and emotional exhaustion of standing for 15 hours each day, trying desperately (and to no avail) to display a modicum of intelligence. Now imagine waking up at 4:45 am each morning to have the privilege of experiencing these feelings. It's a wonder I wasn't suicidal.
The surgical residency program at the hospital I was working in would be described as "malignant"- a term I always felt so stunningly described the metastasis of toxic behavior from one resident to another. The residents I worked with hated each other with a simmering, palpable passion- one that was always just beneath the surface, ready to rear its ugly head whenever one or the other's back was turned. But one resident in particular was the embodiment of bad behavior. Let's call him Evan.
Evan, to put it in layman's terms, was a dick. He had a constant bad attitude, a mean word about everyone, and a truly heinous bedside manner that left patients on the verge of legal action. He was condescending, sneering and disdainful, and I had a terribly hard time imagining him convincing anyone on interviews of his "desire to help people."
One day on rounds, we removed a central line from one of my favorite patients. She was smart, funny, with an excellent understanding of her medical issues. As the medical student, my job was to hold pressure for the next five minutes, while the team moved on the next patient. I happily stayed with the patient, chatting with her as I continued to hold pressure.
"What's the tall resident's name?" she asked me.
"Which one? With the glasses?" I replied.
"Yeah, the one with the sour face."
"Oh, you must mean Evan."
"Yeah, Evan. Can you make sure he never comes in my room again?"
"Listen, if I could do that, this hospital would be a much better place," I laughed.
She continued, "He's so horrible to me. When he comes in alone, he's the rudest person. But yesterday, when he came in with the attending, he tried to be all nice to me. I wasn't having it; I was like, 'Oh, now you have some sugar in your coffee??"
Did I mention I love this patient?
Anyway, the patient encounters, few though they were, are what kept me going through this hellish experience. But that's enough vitriol for one post. I have to let the venom out, but only a bit at a time, or risk overwhelming you all. It's truly a wonder that after third year any medical students still want to become doctors.
Next time we'll discuss the patient I watched exsanguinate and die.
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