SMS (“Stanford Medical School”) Unplugged is a forum for students to chronicle their experiences in medical school. The student-penned entries appear on Scope once a week; the entire blog series can be found in the SMS Unplugged category. Certain details in this entry have been omitted or changed, and all names have been altered to protect the identity of those involved.
Brief life update, since it’s been more than 3 months since I’ve last posted on SMS Unplugged:
- I disappeared for most of April through the end of May to study for and take Step 1, which – for anyone who hasn’t heard of this test – is a pretty brutal, not to mention expensive (~$590!! One of many reasons why med students are poor), 8-hour exam that tests broad concepts of medicine (biochem, immunology, organ systems, etc.) and is widely heralded one of the most important tests for residency admission.
- I started clerkships at the end of June, with my first clerkship being in internal medicine. The rest of this entry describes one of the most poignant experiences from my first month and a half on rotations.
It was just another call day, when all of a sudden, an overhead announcement rang through the ward: “Code Blue, respond to Room 281. Repeat – Code Blue, respond to Room 281.” Instantly, the atmosphere in our team room turned serious: We knew it was one of our patients, Mr. Bailey, there. As a group, we sprinted towards Room 281. Disorganized, panicked thoughts were running through my head – oh-my-god-what-happened-to-our-patient, thank-goodness-I’m-wearing-sneakers-and-scrubs-today-there’s-no-way-I-could-run-like-this-in-flats, oh-my-god-what-happened-to-our-patient, oh-my-god.
When we got to the room, there were at least 8 people there already, with more trickling in. Our patient was covered in wires, IV lines, a face mask for oxygen. My resident stepped up to the bed and began telling everyone else about our patient’s past medical history, what we were treating him for, how his clinical course had been. I stood in the back, with the single-minded goal of keeping out of everyone’s way. For the next several minutes, at least a dozen people worked to bring Mr. Bailey back to life – and when I left the room, they had succeeded.
I walked back to the team room in a bit of a haze, the relief beginning to course through me, mixed in with remaining vestiges of adrenaline. I had only met Mr. Bailey once before, as he was primarily being followed by another member of my team. From our daily morning rounds, however, I knew he was incredibly sick. We estimated that he only had a few months left. When I met him that one time, it was so clear to see that he was struggling, to breathe, to keep his state of mind. Still, I thought it would be months, not days before he passed away.
The morning after the code, I came into the hospital at the usual time, pre-rounded on my own patients, and headed back to the team room to prep my presentation and notes for rounds. As I walked back to the team room, I ran into another team member, who asked me, “Did you hear about Mr. Bailey?” “No,” I said. “He died last night.”
I froze, my hand on the door handle to our team room, my eyes filling with tears. I stammered to my team member, my sentences turning to phrases, turning to single words – “I think I need to take a short walk. Am fine. Short walk. Be back. Fine.” And then I let go of the door handle, turned, went to the first floor of the hospital, found a bench off to the side, where I could be alone, and let my tears flow. How could it be that the person I had seen brought back to life less than 12 hours ago was no longer alive?
After some time, I pulled myself together, and went back to the team room. I clicked on Mr. Bailey’s chart, to see what had happened last night, and was met by the following pop-up message:
“This patient passed away on _____ ___, 2015. Do you wish to continue?”
The choices were yes or no.
I clicked no.
RIP Mr. Bailey.
Hamsika Chandrasekar will soon begin her third year at Stanford’s medical school. She has an interest in medical education and pediatrics.
Photo by Rick Kimpel