I learn so much from my patients. I don't just learn how to conduct a medical interview, how to perform a physical exam, or how to give a case presentation. No, I learn much more than that.
Yesterday's patient was an 80-year-old man who has been in the hospital for 6 weeks. Medically, things have gone from bad (weakness and shortness of breath from pulmonary fibrosis complicated by heart failure) to worse (a complicated UTI with methicillin-resistant staph). Anyone entering his room must wear a gown and gloves to avoid picking up MRSA themselves. As I donned the protective gear, I wondered how it made him feel to know that the medical personnel feared his infection. Lifestyle-wise, things have also gone downhill. During his stay at the hospital, he has been informed that his home is no longer environmentally safe and that he can no longer live alone, as he has for all of his adult life. He cannot go back to his home, which is the last place he stayed before coming to the hospital 6 weeks ago. This was clearly upsetting to him, but he tried his best to remain stoic about the situation. His parents and siblings died at young ages of heart attacks. His closest relatives were a niece and nephew far out on Long Island. He was so thin I could see all his bones.
Despite all of these hardships, he showed hardly any emotion about it all. He clearly liked talking, as he rambled on and on after each question we asked. He had a sense of humor. When we asked if he ever married or had children, he said, "No, never. I offered my hand to many ladies, but they would only give me their foot." He looked at me and smiled. Later, "My sister died at 60. My brother...died at 61. I guess I was supposed to go at 62, but thank God I'm still here." I was somewhat surprised, but comforted, to hear this; despite his many difficulties, he was thankful to be alive. Later, when I was conducting the physical exam, he said out of nowhere, "You're going to make a great doctor." All I could think about was how young I must have looked to him. I was caught off-guard. "I hope so!" I laughed, and then, "Thank you."
By then, I had forgotten about the gown, forgotten about the gloves. They may have been a barrier to MRSA, but they were not a barrier to connecting with my patient.
Yesterday's patient was an 80-year-old man who has been in the hospital for 6 weeks. Medically, things have gone from bad (weakness and shortness of breath from pulmonary fibrosis complicated by heart failure) to worse (a complicated UTI with methicillin-resistant staph). Anyone entering his room must wear a gown and gloves to avoid picking up MRSA themselves. As I donned the protective gear, I wondered how it made him feel to know that the medical personnel feared his infection. Lifestyle-wise, things have also gone downhill. During his stay at the hospital, he has been informed that his home is no longer environmentally safe and that he can no longer live alone, as he has for all of his adult life. He cannot go back to his home, which is the last place he stayed before coming to the hospital 6 weeks ago. This was clearly upsetting to him, but he tried his best to remain stoic about the situation. His parents and siblings died at young ages of heart attacks. His closest relatives were a niece and nephew far out on Long Island. He was so thin I could see all his bones.
Despite all of these hardships, he showed hardly any emotion about it all. He clearly liked talking, as he rambled on and on after each question we asked. He had a sense of humor. When we asked if he ever married or had children, he said, "No, never. I offered my hand to many ladies, but they would only give me their foot." He looked at me and smiled. Later, "My sister died at 60. My brother...died at 61. I guess I was supposed to go at 62, but thank God I'm still here." I was somewhat surprised, but comforted, to hear this; despite his many difficulties, he was thankful to be alive. Later, when I was conducting the physical exam, he said out of nowhere, "You're going to make a great doctor." All I could think about was how young I must have looked to him. I was caught off-guard. "I hope so!" I laughed, and then, "Thank you."
By then, I had forgotten about the gown, forgotten about the gloves. They may have been a barrier to MRSA, but they were not a barrier to connecting with my patient.
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