Reflections on Third Year

So third year ended 2 weeks ago for me, and I've yet to write about it. You think after an "accomplishment" such a surviving third year I'd be bursting with feeeeeelings about the matter. After all, I briefly delved into the realm of the introspective when I finished first year, and I got damn near teary-eyed after taking down Step 1. After third year, I don't know. I don't have that same sense of accomplishment, and the same sense of transitioning onto something new. Am I glad I no longer have to rotate through specialties I have no interest in showing faux-interest along the way? You betcha. But I didn't wake up the day after my OB/Gyn shelf feeling any older or wiser. I think part of that is because the transition to the next level of competency tends to come throughout third year rather than after it. Before my last shelf exam, I was thinking a lot about my first rotation on peds and the student I was then was very different from the student I am now. But that change was a slow process that had little to do with the MS label after my name. Basically, I can see the progress I made this year, but don't really feel like I "survived" anything. Maybe it's because I really enjoyed third year and the things that are historically dreaded about it weren't that big of a deal to me. Maybe it's because I'm going into a surgical field and I know my days of sleep deprivation, early mornings, and busy days are far from over. And you know what, I'm cool with that.

That being said, good riddance to the third year label. It'll be nice to not have people automatically assume you know nothing and can do nothing just because you're a third year medical student.

Anyways, it was a good week off, and now I'm on to the greener pastures of fourth year, the "best year of medical school."

Normalizing.

I had an interesting conversation with a friend in the military the other day about the things we do for work and how they become so mundane to us, that we lose sense of what's normal. As third year draws to a close and I look back at the experiences of the past 12 months, I realize how much I have seen and experienced that to many (or most) people would be vasovagal-inducing, nauseating, disturbing, masochistic, macabre, or just plain strange which has simply become... normal, to me. It is normal to be covered in blood or various other bodily fluids. It is normal for the workplace to smell of feces and urine. It is normal to work 15 hours a day. It is normal to stick your hand into various bodily orifices, natural or artificial. It is normal to disassemble the human body, intervene in a problem, then reassemble using silk, nylon, and stainless steel. It is normal to discuss bowel habits, suicidal thoughts, and sexual activity the first time you meet a person.

Back when I was in undergrad, I remember some of the jokes about certain medical specialties. Proctology. Who would want to deal with butts all day? Urology. Who would want to touch penises all day? Gynecology. Who would want to stare down vaginas all day? C'mon man, that's gross. Seriously, who would want to do that for a living? Especially a guy.

Well, after two weeks on OB/Gyn and numerous sterile speculum exams, the field has become... normalized. And really, once the pelvic exam stops being weird and starts being just one more physical exam you "do" to get information, you begin to see what's cool about the field. It's fast paced and busy, where things can go from reassuring to tenuous quickly. A good balance of medicine and surgery. Good outcomes for the patient in most circumstances, and a chance to significantly improve outcomes in cases where things are more dire. A sense of participating in an important moment in the patient's life.

But yes, all "that" stuff about OB/Gyn is now nothing unusual. So much so that when I do a pelvic exam now, all the anxieties I felt before about an exam that seemed so "gross" and inappropriate before just seems like another part of my job. My main concerns are more for the patient and how she may feel about a baby-faced male doctor-to-be performing an exam that is uncomfortable and in principle socially taboo. I am still very much in tune with that, and still struggle with balancing patient discomfort with my own education. But as far as it seeming gross, or unusual, those feelings are gone. I already find myself forgetting what it was like to know nothing about obstetrics. The 17 year old nulliparous patient who has no idea it is normal to defecate the bed during delivery. The couple who just welcomed their first child into the world who have a brief look of horror when the resident says she is now "using suture to reapproximate the vaginal wall." The 28 year old new mother who glances down in horror after we "remove" 300cc's of clot from her uterus post-partum. I forget how strange these things must seem.

During a c-section earlier in the week, the anesthesiology resident was comforting the patient during the procedure, talking her through the steps of the procedure. We had just finished closing the hysterotomy, and the resident says flatly "they just finished closing the uterus, you may feel some discomfort as they return the uterus to inside the body." I can imagine the patient's eyes growing wide, but all I hear over the drape is "WHAT!?!???" A large part of me cannot find fault in his faux pas, as these things seem routine to us. There is nothing strange about removing the uterus and placing it on the stomach to better sew the incision.

Just a few things that are now normal to me.

Ironically, 3 of the first 8 image results for the keyword "normal" in google images are of genitalia.

Livin' in a woman's world.

So I'm a week into OB/Gyn, which has traditionally been labeled as the estrogen-charged girls club of the third year rotations. I've heard some horror stories from a few members of my class of the male gender, so I had a few trepidations heading into the rotation.

I was standing in the workroom doing board rounds last week when the conversation of the room turned to hair straighteners. Believe me when I tell you I now know more about hair straighteners than I ever cared to know. My intern turned to me and mouths "sor-ry", and someone makes a comment about how I was the only guy in a room of 9 women. The funny thing is, I didn't even bat an eye at the entire situation. Hell, I didn't even notice the female predominance of the room until someone pointed it out. It seems like I've been working on female dominated teams more of the year, so I decided to do a formal count.

And of the 40 residents and attendings I've worked under this year... 33 have been women.

Maybe this has conferred some inherent advantage on this rotation, because things have gone swimmingly well so far. After all, we're all just living in a woman's world.

4 weeks left in third year.

Character approved.

So one of the fun things of this rural rotation is that I get to know a lot of the docs in the hospital, just by virtue of its small size (40 beds). I've been scrubbing a couple cases with "the" general surgeon on staff who's a real character. Pushing 70 years old, 5 ft and change, originally from Brooklyn. Which means he's a little ADD, a little senile, lacks any sort of social filter, and is a helluva surgeon. Kinda like Tommy DeVito from Goodfellas, except Jewish, and minus the mean streak.

Example of an exchange we had:

"So its my 40th wedding anniversary this weekend"
"Congratulations! That's quite the accomplishment! Any big plans?"
"Well, it's actually our 39th. But I'm telling the wife its the 40th so I can take her to Switzerland at the end of the month. That way we get to do it twice. The broad doesn't have a fuckin' clue how long its been, but god do I love 'er."
"Haha, that's brilliant."

Anyways, earlier this week I scrubbed on a "soft tissue mass excision", which was basically excising an abscess. The thing had been I&D'd a couple times and always recurred, and since it sat squarely in the patient's perineum (3 cm or so lateral to the anal triangle, almost right over his ischial tuberosity... yeowch), it was a painful sucker.

So we're about to start the case and Dr. DeVito turns to me and says "I was gonna let you cut, but I'm gonna try to get this sucker out without piercing the abscess. Y'know, keep the pus out of the wound and we might be able to close him up and save him a lot of trouble." We get the site draped, eyeball/palpate the abscess, and draw a nice clear margin on the skin. I'm ready with suction in hand, Dr. DeVito makes the first cut, and... almost immediately pus pours out of the incision all over the surgical site, sprung free from a pocket of the abscess that was tracking laterally under the skin.

"Well, shit. Might as well let you take over."

He turns, hands me the 10 blade, and grins.

"The Look."

As part of our internal medicine rotation, we were required to spend 5 weeks at a hospital out in the community. The hospital I was sent to was a fairly large medical center with close to 500 licensed beds, and part of my hospital was a large tower of a structure dedicated as the "cancer center". The problem with the cancer center is that it was built as an addition to the hospital, which meant to get access to the beds within the tower, you had to go up to the 3rd floor of the regular hospital, through this back hallway attached to the corner stairwell, go through a tiny side door, which brought you to a back elevator shaft. You then went up the curiously slow elevator, through a set of double doors, then up another set of stairs, just to get to the beds in the tower. As a result, the tower had been nicknamed the "Death Star", because every time a code or rapid response was called in the tower it took several minutes to respond simply by virtue of its reclusive location. While rotating at the site, I worked with a senior resident who took the code pager very, very seriously. Whether it was a code blue or a rapid response, we. were. running.

One day on short call, we had an afternoon where the code pager would not shut up. As a result, we were running all over the hospital to various locations within the hospital, always at an aggressive jog with my 30 pound white coat flapping around me and sweat beading on my forehead. All the codes that morning ended up being fairly well controlled situations... a patient in the post-op area of the day surgery who got too much narcotic, a code blue called on a patient already in the cath lab, a patient who had an an RRT called simply because the attending wanted a stat ECG. We had just finished up our 5th code of the morning when the code pager started blaring again, this time for a patient in the Death Star. "Crap." my senior muttered, and off we took, up to corner stairwell, down the back hallway, through the tiny side door, to the elevator. Wait for it. Wait for it. Wait for it. Up the elevator. Through the double doors. Up the stairwell. Down another hallway.

When we arrived the scene was fairly chaotic. An elderly woman was sitting tensely up in bed. Nursing staff was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to get an ABG, and blood was spotted all over her arm and hospital gown. The ECG showed new-onset a-fib and the patient was satting 70% on 12 liters of oxygen through a rebreather mask. But what struck me most profoundly was the look on the poor woman's face. She had what we called "the look": sitting rigidly upright, arms locked with hands grasping onto her sheets, desperately trying to breath with eyes wide and an expression of impending doom on her face.

There's only a few things that give someone "the look," and in an elderly bed-ridden hospital patient, we knew even before the labs came back that she had thrown a clot to her lungs. She was wheeled down the hallway, down the elevator, through the lobby, up another set of elevators, and into the ICU. Luckily, she did quite well and survived her PE with only a scare. The Death Star had been defeated that day. But I'll forever be imprinted with that look she had the moment we walked through the door. It's one of those indelible moments that are sprinkled throughout the third year of medical school - when what you learn in textbooks manifests itself in a living, breathing human being tenuously placed in front of you.

The unrelenting March of time.

Apologies for the lack of posts recently. Spent the last weeks of my internal med rotation scrambling to study for the shelf exam, which definitely lived up to it's billing as a ridiculous exam. That was followed by a week of continuity curriculum, with The Greatest Day of the Year thrown in mid-week (and copious consumption of Guinness in celebration). Followed by The Greatest Weekend of the Year (aka March Madness). Little time for frivolous things like blogging, you know.

Anyways, just started on my rural medicine clerkship. I'm nestled in a small coastal town, living in a small loft apartment without television. Should be interesting. I'll keep the updates coming more frequently. Got some good stories from the end of medicine, including a couple dramatic codes and my first intubation! Stay tuned.

ADD stands for Attention Deficit.. LET'S GO RIDE BIKES!

Well that was fun while it lasted. I was really in a groove there for a while, but alas, no good thing in medicine lasts long. I'm going into my 9th week of internal medicine now... and I'm sick of it. Sick of detailed assessments and plans, sick of "rule out MI", sick of pontificating on the various minutiae of pathophysiology. Granted 9 weeks in any discipline can get tiresome, I imagine. Couple that with being sorely behind in my review for the massive "you will FAIL this shelf!" shelf exam bearing down in 11 days, and a new senior who believes "you can't learn if you aren't in the hospital, so I'm going to keep you here forever muahahaha" and well, you get the idea.

But if there's one thing you learn as a third year, its how to grin and bear it.

11 more days.

Grin.

In the meantime, if you're looking for some good reading, don't look here. But look here:
Great story about the hidden lives of our patients, by Aggravated DocSurg. This story really encapsulates where I was at with my last post.

If you're a pre-med or just someone considering going to medical school, don't do it for the money, or the so-called "prestige", or the babes, because such things are slowly being eroded away (well, except the babes... I think?). But there are still plenty of great reasons to go into medicine, and Dr. Parks over at Buckeye Surgeon states it absolutely eloquently.

And, and your homework for next time... read up on Throckmorton's Sign.

'Till next time.

Happily exhausted.

There's a lot of mystique surrounding the internal medicine rotation in the third year of medical school. Besides the fact that your IM core clerkship grade is considered one of those "important things" for residency, its also the rotation that best integrates the various informations you crammed into your head during the pre-clinical years. Some say its where you learn to "think like a doctor" or "be a doctor." While my IM clerkship has not turned out to be nearly as dramatic as some would make it out to be, I have seen myself making small but significant strides on being able to capably diagnose and manage patients in the acute setting. I'm on week 6 of 10, and so far it's been exhausting, but incredibly rewarding.

It's amazing how many different experiences you can pick up in a short period of time, and how patient's stories are intertwined within all of it. Some are humorous, some are sad, some are powerful.
The little old lady found wandering the streets at 3am looking for her favorite starbucks, pleasantly delirious due to a UTI.
The woman admitted with herpes zoster ophthalmicus, who always wants you to linger just a little longer when pre-rounding, and you can tell she is lonely.
The patient who has a syncopal episode while masturbating.
The woman who has never smoked a single cigarette in her life, who dies from lung cancer.
The woman with sickle cell who is allergic to opiates, forced to endure the pain of her acute crises with only tylenol, who handles herself with awe-inspiring stoicism.
The 22 year old asthmatic, who can't afford an inhaler because he spends all his money on heroin.
The man with end-stage liver disease who can't get a transplant because he can't kick the bottle.
The 600 lb man, bed-ridden for over a year, who stands for the first time, and the attending shakes your hand and says "strong work, without your help, I don't think he would have ever left the hospital."
The patient with a-fib who passes suddenly in the middle of the night.
The woman who comes in with difficulty swallowing and leaves with a terminal cancer diagnosis.

It's humbling that these experiences are considered my "education." But I don't think I've ever appreciated or enjoyed medical school more than now. Its funny that it happened on this rotation, because internal medicine can sometimes (often) be much too rhetorical and slow paced for me. But there's something to be said about the principles of internal medicine being the foundation of how medicine is practiced, regardless of specialty. And I think my experiences on this rotation have allowed me to cross another one of those thresholds of clinical competency. I found as I was getting my feet wet in third year, I was often so concerned with not screwing up that the nuances of clinical medicine whisked right by me. I was so concerned with not missing anything in my history, I missed connecting with my patient. I was so concerned with my notes being perfect, I didn't stop and think about what I was looking for in my physical exam, or why certain things were in the plan. But as you gain competency in those skills, you learn to enjoy the process as much as the result. Medicine becomes less of a checklist and more of a visceral experience. And it becomes much more fun in the process.

So tomorrow, my alarm will go off at 4:30am. And I'll groan, because I'm exhausted. But then, I'll get up, and I'll smile. Because I get to do this for a living. How awesome is that?

o hai

Yup, still alive. Been taking a ton of call, essentially q3, and service has been slammed. I will update soon when I become AAOx3 again.

You know you're in med school when... (VI)

Was riding up the hospital elevator up from the Starbucks in the lobby this morning with a classmate of mine. We were both clutching venti size coffees, and I turn to him and go:

"How much sleep did you get last night?"
"2 hours. You?"
"3, I was lucky."

A lady in the elevator with us suddenly laughs and says: "It builds character."

NEW. MOTTO.

Onward and Upwards

2010. Has a nice ring to it - I'm a big fan on even numbers. It will be interesting to see how people abbreviate it. "Oh-Ten" is inaccurate but it sounds silly to just call it "Ten". But I digress.

I'm not normally a big fan on new years resolutions, but I've been trying to integrate more mindfulness into my life and resolutions seem like a good assess-and-change exercise, so here's my top 4 for the new year:
1. Take Better Advantage of Learning Opportunities
I've found myself too often getting caught up in the drudgery of third year. When you're tired, it's easy to check out mentally at the end of a long day, post up on the couch, and drown your sorrows in a big glass of reality television. And with medical school costing me $115 a day (and that's in-state tuition!) it'd be really stupid to waste the opportunity to maximize my education. So, in a small-changes-leading-to-sustainable-change sort of way, my goal is to read at least one article/subject/etc related to a learning issue from the day each day. I can polish off a good review article in 15-30 minutes, so there's really no excuse to not be able to go this... except laziness.

2. Get More Procedures!
The first part of third year, I've been pretty timid about standing up for myself and taking advantage of opportunities to get my hands dirty. Part of it was probably the shock of jumping into the deep end of clinical medicine - I think a certain part of me didn't believe I deserved to do s**t to real live people yet. And with residents abound in the hospital, its been easy to defer to them when chances do come up because they "need" it more than me, for accreditation issues, etc. But with fourth year and graduation barreling towards me, I'm starting to realize I'm going to NEED those skills faster than I realized, and I better get to work gaining competence in those skills I'll need as an intern sooner rather than later.

3. More Self Care
I got an hour long massage the other day (my first in 6 years) and quite plainly, it was probably the one thing I've needed most for quite a while. I tend to hold my stress in my neck and back, and both were starting to resemble cargo netting with the number of knots I was accruing on a daily basis. Along the same lines, I've gotten lazy when it comes to eating, and have found it easier to whip up some ready-made meal rather than deal with cooking/cleaning the various dishes and pans required to cook a real meal of food. So, goals for the new year are to: a. Get one massage a month - all that loan money has to be good for something, right! b. Cook at least one real meal of food per week.

4. Socialize
I've found myself falling into a trap the first half of third year. If there's one word to describe the clinical years of med school, it's: tired. Always tired. So when those few daybreaks of free time do pop up, I found myself staying in to sleep, waking up afterwards to find myself... still tired. So I waste all my free time trying unsuccessfully to become untired, and miss out on opportunities to, you know, be a normal human being for a couple hours. So the goal for the new year: at least 3 social events a month, where I engage in activities such as imbibing delicious deverages and debate the psychological intricacies of Jersey Shore. You know, stuff a normal 24 year old should be doing. Who cares if it means I'll be tired? I'd be that way anyways.

Onwards to 10 weeks of internal medicine starting tomorrow. On call this week, and I haven't taken call since October, so it'll be another "0-to-60" adjustment. But I'm looking forward to rejoining the clinical world. I feel like my medical brain has atrophied over the past month, so it's time to start practicing the mental gymnastics again. Hooah!

Flying Solo

Few things represent the hierarchical and tradition-seeped natures of medicine better than the operating room. As many med students will attest, half of the battle of the general surgery rotation isn't learning the post-operative management of surgical patients or how to properly manage a wound infection - it's learning the ebb and flow of the operating room. Tales abound which serve to strike fear and trepidation into subsequent generations of medical students of students being yelled at for touching something, looking at something, breathing improperly, blinking improperly, etc, etc. There's a procedure and tradition for every minute detail of the choreography of the OR, and you are expected to know it all before you learn it all, which contributes to awkward or embarrassing moments aplenty for medical students as they rotate through. I remember when I got yelled at while participating in a patient transfer off the operating table. I was the one pulling the majority of the weight on the rollerboard, and assumed it was my responsibility to do the countdown. 3... 2... 1... I get glares. I'm told to step away from the patient and not touch anything anymore. Turns out it's always Anesthesia which does the countdown, which is logical as they are overseeing/moving the airway, everything that happens in the OR is logical, but how in the hell was I supposed to know that beforehand? Such is life sometimes for a medical student in the OR - expected to know these things, before anyone tells them. In my own limited time in the OR, I have collected a small bundle of mortifying anecdotes. The time I almost desterilized the entire instrument table with a sneeze, the time I put the SCDs on upside down, the time I almost face-planted into the operative field when I slipped on some sigmoidoscope-associated KY jelly which had dribbled onto the floor... the list goes on.

But this post isn't about embarrassment; it's about hierarchy. When standing around the surgical field, there's also a rigid structure to where one must place one's feet. Traditionally, to the upper right of the patient, by the patient's right armpit, stands the lead surgeon. The lead surgeon is, by virtue of the position, the individual in charge of directing and performing the majority of the operation. To the left of the lead surgeon stands the scrub nurse or scrub tech, whose job is to, among other things, maintain sterile technique during the operation, pass instruments to surgeon during procedure, and help perform counts of surgical instruments throughout the procedure. To the upper left of the patient resides the individual providing first assist to the operation - who, among other things, uses the bovie to cut vessels and tissues at the lead surgeon's discretion, helps provide traction to tissue planes to aid in dissection, etc. And to the right of the first assist lies the domain of the medical student: the position of second assist. Here one typically aids in the operation by holding retractors to open the operative view, use suction to remove smoke, fluid, and blood from the operative plane, and tightly covet the Mayo scissors that one uses to cut suture ties. But with the myriad of surgeries and surgical approaches out there, there's also a wide variety of places where the surgeon and assistants stand to get the best exposure into the surgical field. And just likes plays on a football field, its up to the medical student to learn where to proverbially 'line up' for the snap. In an academic institution like my own base of operations, typically a resident provides first assist during the operation and the medical student stands beside as second assist for the operation. But during chance opportunities, such as when the resident is taking the lead on a case, med students are given the opportunity to run first assist, which is infinitely more fun for obvious reasons - namely, being able to more actively participate in the case. Rarely, a med student is offered to take the lead on simple cases (appendectomies, cholecystectomies, etc), which is always something worthy of writing home about, no matter how mundane the case may be for everyone else in the OR.

So a couple weeks ago I was spending a day in the OR with the ENT surgeon who I'm doing research with and a third year resident. We were powering through several of the half dozen cases on the docket for the day and next up on the case list was a simple tonsillectomy. The resident gets called down to the ED for a consult, and suddenly the attending turns to me and says:

"Want to take a whack at it?"

The third year of med school is a lot like the game of golf. All too often, you find yourself feeling incompetent, frustrated, disheartened, or some combination of the three. As your shot out of the shrub grass careens off the tree and lands in the water hazard you didn't take into account, you begin to ask yourself why you even play this stupid game to begin with. But a handful of times during a round, the balls rises gracefully into the air and plops, like it should, down onto the green within spitting distance of that birdie. And before you know it, you're paying another set of green fees and are back for more. Likewise, third year is full of foibles and f*ckups, sometimes asking yourself why you're doing this for the rest of your life. But every once and a while, you get to see or do something incredibly cool that reminds you why you're in it in the first place. And you come back for more.

Well this moment was my proverbial 240 yard approach shot plopped down 6 inches from the pin. The first time I get to take the lead during an operation. I step into position above the patient's head and gaze down at the base of the mouth. Just as I get bovie in hand, the attending laughs and says: "Don't worry... the first tonsillectomy I ever scrubbed on, the patient lost 1800ml of blood. The bar's set pretty low." Great. My resting tremor kicks up a couple notches.

But before I know it, we're off. I go in alongside the anterior tonsillar pillar, find the capsule, and before I know it, the procedure is over. Less nervous than I thought I'd be, but still trying to contain the 8 year old inside of me jumping off the walls going "WOW! That was COOL! Let's do it AGAIN! WHEEEE!"

Yup, back for more.

Respect Mah Authoritah

Wow, has it really been a month since I've posted? Apologies, my loyal reader(s) (hi mom!). I successfully survived my family medicine clerkship and sat through long hours of lecture during our "continuity curriculum" week (sidenote: how in the hell did I ever survive the first two years of medical school? I can barely sit and listen to a presentation for an hour now; I can't believe I used to do it for 4-8 hours straight every day).

Which brings me to my current location within the lands of an "Elective Block". Unlike some of my classmates who decided to do something clinical with that time, I decided to pursue a research elective, which I have concluded (as I sit in Starbucks and sip on my delicious holiday drink) was quite possibly the most awesome decision I've made this year.

The original plan was to have one study I was going to pound out in this 4-6 week period. Well, that 1 study turned into 2, and the 2 turned into 3 (well, more 2 1/2) and suddenly I am growing research protocols out of my ears and dreaming of HIPAA waivers of authorization. Yet despite all the madness, the simple fact that I get to set my own schedule has been incredibly refreshing. No sitting around in the afternoons on the wards bored out of my mind, no scut work, no asking permission to leave, no early mornings unless I am feeling particularly motivated. Ahhhhhh.

There is one thing that has been particularly maddening though; it's $%#@$%ing impossible to get anyone to do something for you if you're "only" a "medical student." It's the sad reality of the authority purgatory we reside in. On the wards, we can make treatment recommendations but can't prescribe medications. We can place orders but they have to be co-signed. Our notes are part of the medical record but residents must write separate notes for billing purposes. Because there is so little we can actually accomplish independently, we exist in this strange limbo where we can do a lot but there's very little we can actually "do." So it's understandable that there tends to be this dismissive attitude towards med students in the hospital, and I'm cool with that. But the reverse is also true - it often seems impossible to get anyone to do anything for you as a med student. On the wards, I've learned to stop signing my pages with "MS3" because if I do it'll be over an hour until I get a call back. I always go back to a moment on my psych rotation when one of my fellow students on the team slammed down the phone and yelled "Do they REALLY think its only the med student who wants this CT? Just for sh*ts and giggles?!? I'm CALLING because my ATTENDING wants the damn CT scan! RESPECT MAH AUTHORITAH!"
Yup, been there before.
Well, I've found that the research realm is not exempt from this phenomenon. Every email I send needs at least one follow-up before I get an answer. Every voicemail I leave requires at least one call-back before I get a reply. Being that I have precious few weeks where I can devote all my focus and time to this, I'm trying to get things done in an expedient manner, but too often it's like trying to work in quicksand where every action requires twice the normal effort. It's almost a daily occurrence where I want to have a cow and just yell "I'm CALLING because my PI wants the damn form signed!"

So, if there is anyone from the IRB reading this: Please. If a medical student is asking for help in getting something done, try to help the first time. We are not rogue anarchists set loose in the hospital to do what we want all willy nilly. If we're trying to get something done, there's typically a damn good reason why we are.

Now, back to my delicious holiday drink.

Snap, Crackle, Pop.

One of the difficult things about learning the art of the physical exam early in medical school is learning to differentiate pathology from normal. I remember when we first were instructed on the lung exam. We learned about these ambiguous terms... rales, rhonchi, egophony, stridor, tactile fremitus. I learned that you could have crackles in your lungs, and set about listening to the lungs on all my patients very closely. And I discovered a funny thing. Vesicular (aka normal) breath sounds can sound kinda-crackley if you listen close enough. All my patients started having crackles. I asked a doc I was working with one day "What do crackles sound like? Because it sounds to me like all my damn patients have crackles."

Eventually, I had a patient with real crackles, and like anything else with the physical exam, once you listen and touch enough normal patients the pathology begins to jump out at you. But this story isn't about that patient. It's about a patient I saw earlier this week, a 65 year old man with chronic kidney disease and congestive heart failure who presented with shortness of breath. He was actually my first patient I've seen with 3+ pitting edema, I damn near lost the entirety of my index finger into his left shin. But this story is about crackles, and I noticed a certain quality to his voice as I was talking to him in the exam room. No hoarseness or changes in phonation. But it sounded like someone had just poured themselves a bowl of rice krispies and set it in the corner. The snap, crackle, pop became more audible with each labored breath he took. For some reason, the moment brought me back to my early days of listening to the lungs, waiting for total silence and listening intently, hoping to catch a crackle or two in passing. And here I had a patient sitting in front of me with so much fluid brimming out of his lungs that I didn't even have to place a stethoscope on him to hear the crackles.

Sadly, in this economy, I'm not sure Kelloggs is looking for any new spokespersons anytime soon.

Coin Flip

So I was in clinic the other day, and the next two patients on the schedule looked like this:

10:45am - 21 yo male - abdominal pain
11:00am - 28 yo female - abdominal pain

Hrmmm... which one of these is the appendicitis? The doc I'm working with decides to leave it up to a coin flip on which one I see and which one he sees. Heads, I get the 21 yo dude. Tails, the 28 yo dudette.

Heads.

Cool, 21 year old guy with new onset abdominal pain is about 'classic' for appendicitis as you get. I knock, enter the room, and the exchange does something like this (abridged for everyone's sake):

Nice to meet you, Mr. Abdominal Pain Dude, tell me what's going on.
"My stomach's hurting."
How long has it been hurting?
"Oh a while."
A while as in several days? Several weeks? Months?
"It started at 9 pm last Tuesday, I was sitting on the couch eating french fries and watching Biggest Loser."

...I could see in a hurry that this conversation was hurtling out of control into the "awkward patient encounters" category...

Can you point to where it hurts?
*points to RUQ*
Does it hurt anywhere else?
"My back hurts all the time, and spine pain. And my jaw has been hurting recently. Is that related? I also have nerve sensitivity, like if you touch me here, it hurts. See? That hurts. So don't touch me."
Any nausea or vomiting?
"Well I just throw up sometimes. So I don't know."
Hrmmm, interesting. Have you thrown up since this pain started?
"Oh yeah. In fact, I think I could throw up on your face right now."
Any change in your stool? Diarrhea or constipation?
"I always have diarrhea."
Also interesting. Any other symptoms?

...I see the patient take a deep breath in preparation to respond. This is not a good sign...

"My neck hurts, and my hips hurt when I walk. Is that related? And can I get injections today? My anxiety is really bad recently and I'm out of xanax, can I get a refill? My therapist says I need a refill. I'm also out of my vicodin. I've had a fever of 98.9 all week, and I feel really sweaty. I lost weight but then gained it back. I have to get up to pee sometimes at night but I think thats all the water I drink right before bed. My grandpa had colon cancer... oh my god is this colon cancer? I'm also pretty sure I have fibromyalgia. But that doesn't cause stomach pain, right? Could this be herpes? I'm pretty sure I have herpes. I've been tested 6 times and they were all negative but could this be it? I read on google once that herpes can attack your liver. But I'm pretty sure this is gallstones. Can I get them taken out?"

Long story short, I had no clue what to say after that, and felt that asking too many questions more would just further convolute the picture. Physical exam (yes, he ended up letting me touch him) was very benign, with maybe some very mild tenderness to palpation in the RUQ. We ordered up a chem10 (because, hey, he was right, herpesvirus can cause a fulminant hepatitis, despite the fact that he was not bright yellow) which showed a mild bump in alk phos and total bili. RUQ ultrasound found some very small gallstones. Whether they were the etiology of his abdominal pain or an incidental finding, who knows. He left with a GI referral. But no xanax refill.

Oh, and the 28 yo woman at 11:00 ended up having classic appendicitis.

Third Year and Dog Poop

It's well established in Medical Lore that the third year of medical school is the most taxing of the four. Over the past 4 months, I found myself doubting that assertion. Sure, the hours of third year are substantially longer and the clinical years require a more concerted effort to "bring it" every day, but I found myself having so much fun and time was passing so quickly that the days did not necessarily feel more "difficult."

Then I hit The Wall.

It hits your subtly. The fatigue from the chronic sleep deprivation becomes more pervasive. Your physiologic response to that third cup of coffee becomes less marked. The days drag on longer than you're used to. I was walking downtown the other morning, and unknowingly stepped in a pile of dog poop. I went the majority of my day ignorant to the fact that it was stuck to the bottom of my shoe until later in the day when I caught a firm whiff of it while charting at my station. Burn out is a lot like dog poop. It gets stuck to your shoe, lingers with you the whole day, and before your know it its stinking up your living room. When you finally smell it, its quite unpleasant.

So the days feel a lot more "difficult" lately. I know I'm burnt out, and just like the smell of dog poop, the sensation is quite unpleasant. Feeling tired all the time, feeling like you are just trying to survive your days, finding yourself feigning interest - it is not the ideal way one hopes to spend their days. And unlike the preclinical years, you are not afforded the luxury of being able to take a couple days or a weekend off to recharge your batteries. The alarm is going to go off at 5 AM tomorrow, rounds are going to start at 6:30, your first patient is going to show up in clinic at 8, your notes need to get done, you need to read up on your patients, you need to take that call night, whether you like it or not. That's the true challenge of third year and clinical medicine in general. Your patient's illnesses do not know nor care whether you are having a good day, a bad day; whether you're tired, or sick; whether you're rearing for a new day, or working for the weekend. Your responsibilities do not change with the color of your mood ring. Fatigue breeds complacency and apathy, both of which can be very dangerous, and the real difficulty in third year is learning how to suck it up and be at your best, even if you may not feel at your best.

Luckily, I have 2 1/2 weeks left on this rotation, then a week in the classroom and a 4 week block of research. The halfway point of third year. And a good time to wash off some dog poop.

Marty and Me

One of the most overused cliches in medicine is the oft referenced: "When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras."

It's a valid reasoning in which to guide one's thought processes. After all, common things are common, uncommon things... aren't. But part of the responsibility of a physician also is to provide comfort and reassurance. It's our job to think "worst case scenario," to work up patients for those conditions, and provide reassurance when evidence is sufficient to quell our suspicions. Another common phrase in medicine is "until proven otherwise." Vaginal bleeding in a postmenopausal woman is cancer until proven otherwise. Acute onset of dyspnea or hypoxemia is a pulmonary embolism until proven otherwise. Severe epistaxis in an adolescent is a nasopharyngeal angiofibroma until proven otherwise. I recently had two patient who elucidated just how true this axiom can be.

A 62 year old woman presented with lateral chest pain of two weeks duration. On physical exam, her pain seemed very musculoskeletal in nature. Pain to palpation, pain on deep inspiration and with sneezing/cough, etc. The horse in this situation is a simple intercostal muscle strain. Regardless, we ordered a chest xray which showed ambiguous opacification of her right lower lung. It just didn't quite add up with the lack of any pulmonary symptoms. So, congresspersons and escalating health costs be damned, we decided we couldn't quite be comfortable with just writing things off, and sent the patient off with a referral for a CT scan and instructions for prn ibuprofen and heat. We saw her back today. The CT scan showed findings pathognomonic for lung cancer. Turns out, her pain was musculoskeletal in nature, as the cancer had begun to invade into her 8th rib. It had also spread to her spine. Zebra. Ironically, the patient returned to say that the heat and ibuprofen had really helped with the pain. If it wasn't for the CT, she would have been sent on her way with the belief that it was all just an intercostal muscle strain, while the cancer continued to grow in her chest.

A 22 year old woman presents with a painful unilateral cervical lymphadenopathy which had been present for 1 month. The horse in this situation is some form of infectious etiology: mononucleosis, cat-scratch fever, occasionally HIV (though this didn't jive with her history). She had been to several urgent care centers, and, going with horses instead of zebras, prescribed two antibiotic regimens, with no improvement of her symptoms. There was still a high likelihood her neck mass was viral in etiology, but we ordered a chest xray "just in case." It ended up showing an extensive mediastinal mass. One biopsy later, the diagnosis returned nodular sclerosing Hodgkin's. Zebra. Luckily, her prognosis is excellent and the delay in diagnosis likely will have no significant effect on her therapy. But it is never easy telling a previously healthy 22 year old that they have cancer, and there is a certain level of embarrassment that it took 5 visits to a physician to reach a diagnosis.

I think the most telling thing I've taken away from these experiences is how important the differential diagnosis remains in clinical practice. Most common symptoms can be attributed to the relatively benign conditions that afflict the gross majority of the general population. But it is important to always consider what else can be consistent with a clinical picture that is truly dangerous, as just because a condition is rare does not mean it cannot be affecting the patient sitting in front of you. Bacterial pharyngitis is common and fairly benign. A retropharyngeal abscess is not, and can often present identically. It is the responsibility of the clinician to use their clinical judgment and work up a patient to the point that they can confidently feel the patient is safe in the context of their illness.

After all, just one day, you may come across a zebra in downtown New York.

Choosing a Medical Specialty (Part Dos/Deux/II/0b10)

As a continuation on my previous thoughts on picking a medical specialty, I've once again channeled my Dear Abby and have a new column up over at Headmirror.com.

Check it out here: Why ENT? Choosing a specialty and what drew me to ENT (navigate to Medical Students -> Blizzog)

On the road again

So I have to say, hindsight being 20/10, I ended up enjoying my psych rotation a lot more then I expected. I'll readily admit my preconceptions of patients with mental illness were too skewed by popular culture; I think I was expecting more of a Hannibal Lecter flavor. A "What are the voices in your head telling you Mr. Williams?" "TO KILL YOU!!!" sort of thing. But, fortunately, I found my interactions with patients to be generally pretty interesting and much more pleasant on the whole (exempting one interview with a drunk patient with narcissistic personality disorder). Especially gotta love the schizophrenic patients. Such a sad disease, but a rich source of some purely AWESOME conversations.

Anyways, like it happens time and time again during third year, just when you get comfortable in a rotation, the dean's office picks you up and plops you down in another unfamiliar location. For me, for the next 5 weeks, into a low income family practice clinic on the southeast side. It's been a tough adjustment coming from a rotation where I was afforded a great deal of autonomy and input into patient care, namely because the physician I'm working with has somehow come under the assumption I have the IQ of a sheet of dry wall. Cue one interaction I had today in clinic:
*MedZag, presenting patient to attending while in patient room (I know, awkward.)*
MedZag: Ms. Rogers is here today complaining of persistent worsening of allergies of the past 8 months. She states her main symptoms have been rhinorrhea, nasal stuffiness and sneezing, sore throat, and some intermittent wheezing. No sinus pain or pressure, no cough, no shortness of breath. She tried a trial of Claritin for 2 week...
Attending: So what brings you in today Ms. Rogers?
*Physician and patient proceed to start talking and cover all pertinent points I was about to distill in my presentation*
*Attending begins physical exam*
Attending: Now, if you see here MedZag, if you look up her nose you can see fluid.
*biting tongue*
Attending: You can also see swelling. This is very characteristic of allergies.
MedZag: Hmmm, yes, interesting. I also noticed that when I performed a physical exam (not so subtle hint). I had some ideas of an assessment and plan, would you like me to continue?
Attending: Oh no, that's ok. We'll just give her some Allegra.

This is going to be an interesting 5 weeks.

Hula Hoops

Jumping through hoops is a familiar feeling for any medical student. After all, it's something we have been doing at every level of our education. High school had its own set of hoops, filling college applications with National Honor Society merits, projects, AP classes, and the ilk. When time came to apply to medical school, there was a whole new set of hoops to tackle. Dean's lists, president's lists, scholarships, shadowing experience, personal statements, activities lists. Many experience a sense of relief on the arrival of that medical school acceptance letter. A feeling that you're finally reached the upper echelon of your training and the jumping of hoops is finished.

But alas, medical school brings its own new set of hoops. Anatomy, physiology, pathology. Step 1 and Step 2. Networking, schmoozing, research, clerkship grades. Once again, I will be pounding my head against a keyboard attempting to coherently produce a personal statement within the coming months. With my decision buck up and shoot for an ENT residency, the theme of the past month has most definitely been one of hoop jumping. I've been (somewhat) frantically trying to throw things together for a research elective coming up in November/December. Working on trying to network and get some clinical and OR experience in the process. Basically filling up my free time afforded to me by psych with numerous small projects all to play the game. Who wants to be bored anyways?

I tell myself this is the last time, but know that's just a personal delusion. But hey, I hear hula hooping is a great core workout.