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Medical Education, SMS Unplugged

When the white coat comes off: Is “medical student” a full-time profession?

When the white coat comes off: Is “medical student” a full-time profession?

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.

P1000878In our transition to medical school as first-year medical students, one significant part of our learning has been adopting the dress of the medical profession. Twice a week, in our first year Practice of Medicine course, we wear professional attire and don our white coats, the famous symbol of the medical profession. As we learn how to interview and interact with patients, the white coats encourage us to fully embrace our new professional roles as physicians in training.

At first, the strong symbolism of the white coat made me highly aware of the different roles and personas that we occupy as medical students. If the white coat symbolized my role as a professional, wearing a T-shirt and shorts to my developmental biology class symbolized something decidedly more student-like. In many ways, being able to take off the white coat and hang it up for the day was a convenient way to demarcate our different selves: our professional persona on the one hand, and our “normal” (and more familiar) role as students on the other.

Over time, however, I began to feel a shift in terms of what that my “normal” self was. As I spent more and more time practicing clinical skills that involved helping people to feel comfortable, respected, and cared for, it felt only natural to adopt these qualities in my daily life. After all, after devoting a great deal of effort doing the little things to help make the lives of our patients better, did it really make sense to stop putting in the same effort when interacting with the rest of the world, just because the white coat and badge came off? Is our role as physicians only to help the patients who are sitting in front of us, or should we be thinking about our impact on the well-being of everybody we interact with, from our faculty and staff to the person answering the customer service complaint line?

In some ways, this idea of adopting the professional persona full-time is a scary one. Work-life balance is one of the most discussed concerns among medical students, and many (if not all) of us have fears of our work dominating our lives and keeping us from important things in our lives such as family and friends. Because of this, I have a feeling that the separation that the symbolic white coat offers will become more and more important for us as our careers progress and we become more immersed in our work lives.

That being said, I also acknowledge that, as medical students, the professional persona can help us to consider our daily impact on the world around us, which just might influence the health and happiness of a few extra people each day. For now, then, I’m willing to admit that perhaps there is a little more value to taking our professional mindset home with us than I first realized.

Nathaniel Fleming is a first-year medical student and a native Oregonian. His interests include health policy and clinical research. 

Photo courtesy of Nathaniel Fleming

Medical Education, Medical Schools, Stanford News

Stanford Medicine Music Network brings together healers, musicians and music lovers

Stanford Medicine Music Network brings together healers, musicians and music lovers

sarahkenricMore than 100 physicians, students and members of the Stanford community gathered last week at the Li Ka Shing Center for Learning and Knowledge for the inaugural concert of the Stanford Medicine Music Network.

During the event, Lloyd Minor, MD, dean of the medical school, told the audience, “It is so gratifying to be here this evening, and to see that musicians in the medical community have a means to continue to play and perform.” Music was a big part of Minor’s life in medical school and he played the cello in a musical trio that played at various events during that time.

The network was launched last year after Minor and Steve Goodman, MD, PhD, associate dean for research and translational science, discovered they both attended a 1976 cello performance by Yo-Yo Ma, who was then a student at Harvard. The shared memory inspired them to establish a musical home for the medical community. They joined forces with Audrey Shafer, MD, professor of anesthesiology and director of the Medicine and Muse Program, and Ben Robison, a medical student and professional violinist, and created the Stanford Medicine Music Network (SMMN, pronounced “summon”).

Among the goals of the network are to connect musicians for group practices, organize chamber music and string quartet groups and stage performances at Stanford and in the surrounding community in an effort to contribute to healthy communities.

The concert featured classical and contemporary music as well as a special gift presentation by Charles Prober, MD, senior associate dean of medical education, thanking medical student Kenric Tam and his parents, Carol and Kingsang, for their generous donation of a grand piano. The piano, which will reside outside Paul Berg Hall, will be available for events and members of the Stanford Medicine community to play.

As the program ended, Goodman noted in his concluding remarks that the word “summon” describes multiple aspects of what the network represents. “As musicians, we are summoned to perform, and this in turn summons those who care to listen,” he said. “As physicians and medical students, many of us are answering a summons we felt to care for others, and I think keeping music in our lives allows us to do a better job of that.”

Previously: Stanford’s Medicine and the Muse symposium features author of “The Kite Runner”“Deconstructed Pain:” Medicine meets fine artsStanford network launched to connect musicians, music lovers and What physicians can learn from musicians

Emergency Medicine, Medical Education, Patient Care, SMS Unplugged

Role reversal: How I went from med student to ED patient in under two minutes

Role reversal: How I went from med student to ED patient in under two minutes

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.

emergency sign - smallAs part of the second-year clinical skills course, each member of my class is required to complete two 8-hour Emergency Department (ED) shifts. I had my first ED shift last week, and when I walked in, I introduced myself as a second-year medical student who needed to practice IV placements, EKGs, and any other procedures that happened to come my way. Three hours later, when I walked out of the ED, staff knew me not as a medical student, but as a recently discharged patient, grasping paperwork with my official diagnosis: “syncope and collapse.”

It was 30 minutes into my ED shift, while I was watching a pelvic exam (ironic, given my post a couple weeks ago), when I began to feel a little dizzy. I’ve fainted twice before – once in high school after getting my blood drawn, and once when watching a C-section at a clinic in India – so I recognized the signs: feeling a little hot, starting to see black dots, slightly swaying. I tried to fight off the sensation by breathing slowly, but I could tell it wasn’t working. At the earliest possible opportunity, I turned to the attending in the room, saying, “Is it okay if I leave? I’m feeling lightheaded.”

I barely waited to hear her response before I bolted out of the room and found the closest stool to sit on. Bad call. The stool had no back to it, and next thing I knew, I was on the ground. When I opened my eyes, there were at least five  nurses around me, one whom matter-of-factly said, “Honey, you just became a patient.” Another nurse quietly slipped my hospital badge off my jacket, returning two minutes later with a medical bracelet that she fastened around my wrist.

My memory of those early moments is a little shaky, but I do remember saying over and over again, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” I felt awful that I had come to the ED to learn from the patients, physicians, and staff – without being a burden – but had ended up being another patient for whom they had to provide care. The nurses and attendings immediately normalized the situation, telling me repeatedly that this is a common occurrence in the ED and that many of them had had this happen to them as well. Their assurances made me feel so much better.

The efficiency of the events that followed totally impressed me. The nurse helping me to the bed did the fastest history on me I’ve ever heard, all while hooking me up to a BP cuff and a pulse oximeter. Did I have allergies? (Nope.) Did I  have diabetes? (Nope.) When was the last time I ate? (That morning). Any other medical conditions that I’m being treated for? (Nope.) Any family history of cardiac conditions? (Nope.)

The attending who was with me when I initially felt lightheaded came in at that point and asked, “Has this happened to you before?” and when I told her about the C-section, joked, “ObGyn probably isn’t your favorite thing, huh?” She then laid out the plan for what would happen next: an EKG, a glucose stick, and a blood test, to check for cardiac abnormalities, low blood sugar, and anemia, respectively. Within 30 minutes, all three of these had been done, and I even got a bonus ultrasound thrown in by someone who was practicing recognizing cardiac pathology (not that I had any). Noticing my scrubs and med student badge, this person took the time to show me each ultrasound image, pointing out the various heart chambers, valves, and the location where my IVC entered my right atrium.

By 2 PM, my tests were all back, everything was normal, and I was able to laugh about the entire situation: Somehow, I had come into the ED hoping to practice blood draws and EKGs but came out having them done to me instead. Just another day in the life of a med student.

Hamsika Chandrasekar is a second-year student at Stanford’s medical school. She has an interest in medical education and pediatrics.

Photo by zoomar

 

In the News, Infectious Disease, Medical Education, Medicine and Society, Patient Care

A doctor’s attire – what works best?

A doctor’s attire – what works best?

Lab CoatsDoes what your doctor wear matter to you? You may simply want your doctor to be competent and compassionate, but a recent article in The Atlantic points out some subtle issues in the effects a doctor’s dress may have. Most people seem to prefer “formal” to “casual,” but the author recalls being put off by a well-coiffed female doctor dressed in a smart business suit. But if there’s such a thing as too formal, a doctor in cut-off shorts and a tee isn’t likely to get too many repeat patients either.

I’m pregnant and I have a toddler, so I’ve had more than the average number of visits to the doctor in the past couple of years. I also like clothes and notice what people are wearing, but even I had to stop and think about what, if anything, I remembered about what my OB/GYN or my daughter’s pediatrician (both women) wore during recent visits. Mostly I remember slacks and simple blouses, or in the unforgiving summer heat typical in this area, something a little lighter. My daughter’s pediatrician also has a couple of small Disney character toys attached to her name tag to entertain the youngest patients.

There’s a middle ground that doctors have to strike that may be tricky depending on their specialty, their hospital or clinic’s dress codes (Mayo Clinic requires all docs to dress in a business suit) among other things. And that’s not even considering the issue of how a doctor’s clothes can spread infectious disease. From the article:

The definition of what counts as professional clothing is also in flux, thanks to increasing knowledge of infectious risks. Earlier this year, the Society for Healthcare Epidemiology Association (SHEA) published new guidelines for healthcare-personnel attire in hospital settings. Their goal was to balance the need for professional appearance with the obligation to minimize potential germ transmission via clothing and other doodads like ID badges and jewelry and neckties that might touch body parts or bodily fluids. The SHEA investigators’ take-home points regarding infection: White coats should be washed weekly, at the minimum; neckties should be clipped in place (70 percent of doctors in two studies admitted to having never had a tie cleaned); and institutions should strongly consider a “bare below the elbow” (BBE) policy, meaning short sleeves and no wristwatches or jewelry. Although the impact on reducing the risk of infections remains to be determined, it’s considered potentially significant enough that a number of countries have adopted BBE requirements for all clinicians. (And it leaves me wondering: When will the Mayo clinic update its dress code to short-sleeved business suits?)

The other factor doctors have to consider is that the “business casual” that I’ve seen on most doctors may need to be upgraded for more formal meetings – something I’d never considered as a patient. Again from the article:

Last week, two days in a row, I ran into a colleague who’s a pediatrician. The first day, she wore a beige pantsuit (I’d label it formal, or business) and looked fairly corporate. I wondered to myself if she realized that her clothes were sending a message to her patients, a message that indicated that her medical practice was a business and that she wielded the power. The next day, she wore a loose-fitting knee-length navy dress (professional informal, perhaps, or smart casual). I asked her if she had seen patients the first day. She had not; it was a day of meetings, and when I told her I was writing about doctors’ clothing, she laughed. “When you’re seeing patients,” she said, “you have to look like you’re not afraid to get dirty.”

I’m not sure how I would have reacted if at our first appointment our pediatrician had worn a formal business suit. At the very least, I would have felt under-dressed (jeans and tees are my de facto uniform these days), but I would have likely judged her as cool or somehow distant, not suited to working with kids. Which may prove nothing, but only hint that that the best attire is the kind that your patients don’t notice.

Previously: NY bill proposes banning white coats, ties for doctors
Photo by Pi

Medical Education, SMS Unplugged

My couple's match: Applying for medical residency as a duo

My couple's match: Applying for medical residency as a duo

SMS (“Stanford Medical School”) Unplugged was recently launched as 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.

Moises and fianceIn my last post, I wrote about the pressure that comes with the scrutiny of residency applications and the interview process. Adding to this, many applicants apply alongside their significant other, making use of the “couple’s match” option. Let’s think about that: No longer do you have to stress for yourself, but now you worry for your partner too. And while your primary concern is for them to do well in the match for their own success, it’s hard to overlook the fact that their outcome directly impacts your own.

This spring I’ll be couple’s matching with my fiancé, also a Stanford medical student. We both recently took part in our first interviews, and I’m not sure whether I was more nervous for mine or for hers. While she was at hers I was wishing and hoping for the best; while I was at mine, I was thinking about how my interview reflected on her as well. The topic of applying as a couple has come up many times during medical school, and I expect I’ll be asked it during future interviews.

When I talk to other students who are in relationships with fellow med students, I typically hear two things. Some people say it’s ideal to have a partner outside of medicine, so as to have an escape in their personal life. Others believe that a real benefit of having a partner in the same profession is the understanding that comes with it. I’d say they’re both right. My fiancé and I had to deal with the normal challenges of growing as a couple, but we’ve had to do it in front of shared friends, professors, and clinical teams – which was less than ideal at times. Ultimately (and fortunately), though, these challenges have only contributed positively to our development as future physicians.

Also lucky for us, Stanford’s pass/fail grading scheme during pre-clinical years helped reduce tensions when studying together. In a productive learning manner, it didn’t matter who did better, simply that we were able to help each other pass. Step 1 challenged this a bit: The score mattered. I have to admit getting sucked back into a competitive persona more than I would have wanted – something that didn’t make life much fun for my fiancé at times. Still, those long days of reviewing First Aid and USMLE World were made more tolerable by having her by my side.

We didn’t plan it this way, but our clerkships never overlapped – and the benefit was that we could fill the other in on the quirks of each service. I sure appreciated the heads-up and tips on how to fit into the ob/gyn team. And it was nice to see us each develop our special interests – hers in pediatrics and me in emergency medicine. We’ve started turning to each other with respective questions, making the learning stick better.

The National Resident Matching Program has a different process for matching couples than they do for those going solo; it’s not just about her top choice or my top choice, it’s about the best choice for us as a couple. That could mean an option that places me at my fourth-choice program while she’s at her first, but that’s a win in my book.

As geared as we are in our type-A personalities for personal success, working next to my fiancé in medical school has taught me how to enjoy selfless happiness. I have two envelopes to open come Match Day: twice the pressure, but twice the fun.

Moises Gallegos is a fourth-year medical student. He’ll be going into emergency medicine, and he’s interested in public-health topics such as health education, health promotion and global health.

Previously: “It’s tough feeling like you’re always in a position to be judged” and other thoughts on medical school
Photo courtesy of Moises Gallegos

Medical Education, Medicine and Literature, Patient Care

Prescribing a story? Medicine meets literature in "narrative medicine"

Prescribing a story? Medicine meets literature in "narrative medicine"

woman reading bookIn the November issue of The Lancet, Chris Adrian, MD, postulates about what might be called “narrative medicine.” How do stories and poems alter our experience of caregiving, illness, and suffering? Does literature “help”?

Adrian, who is trained in both creative writing and medicine, thinks that artistic expressions of experience do bring something to clinical care, whether care is experienced on the giving or the receiving end. He also finds these benefits ineffable, impossible to quantify, study, or prove, and all the more powerful for it. He writes:

Lately I feel a strong, anxious conviction that writing and reading fiction and poetry might in fact execute some kind of alleviating change upon our suffering, even in the world of the hospital, upon that portion of our suffering related to illness and death. I can’t begin to argue logically or systematically how it actually does this. Accidentally or miraculously is about as far as I get when I try.

The reason literature, or perhaps art more generally, complements clinical practice is because it communicates in an entirely different language that speaks to different aspects of the human experience. Adrian ponders a line from W.H. Auden’s  “In Memory of W.B. Yeats,” which reads, “For poetry makes nothing happen…” and speculates:

…which is not by any means actually nothing, but instead a domain of activity so estranged from our degraded understanding of what human beings can do in the world that [Auden] had to call it Nothing to say what he meant.

Adrian, who is on faculty at the Columbia University Medical Center and an accomplished author, feels that medicine doesn’t train doctors how to interact with the less-scientific aspects of humans experiencing illness, injury, and suffering. There’s a gap or an absence in most medical care, and that’s where storytelling can step in. Columbia’s Program in Narrative Medicine, which originated in 2000, is dedicated to this idea. It draws participants from a vast array of fields, and inspired the International Network of Narrative Medicine. As its website states, “The care of the sick unfolds in stories. The effective practice of healthcare requires the ability to recognize, absorb, interpret, and act on the stories and plights of others. Medicine practiced with narrative competence is a model for humane and effective medical practice.”

Storytelling in medicine isn’t just for medical practitioners to engage in. Adrian’s musing was inspired by a new book by Carol Levine, Living in the Land of Limbo: Fiction and Poetry about Family Caregiving, which collects the stories of family members who dedicate uncountable resources to caring for sick loved ones. Consider also the longstanding role of the hospital chaplain, and the recent proliferation of doulas, both of whom are specialized professionals who work “next-to” medicine, absorbing emotions, anxieties, and fears, and providing nurturance. And then, of course, there are the patients themselves, who in Adrian’s words might benefit from “art as a considered clinical intervention… very nearly like prescribing a story.”

Previously: Intersection of arts and medicine a benefit to both, report finds, Literature and medicine at life’s end, Thoughts on the arts and humanities in shaping a medical career and Physicians turn to books to better understand patients, selves
Photo by Alex

Medical Education, SMS Unplugged, Women's Health

Learning the pelvic exam with Project Prepare

Learning the pelvic exam with Project Prepare

SMS (“Stanford Medical School”) Unplugged was recently launched as 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.

This past Friday, half my class crowded into a small room in the basement of the Li Ka Shing Center. When we walked in, we saw our names written on the board, under one of the following headings: “Male Pelvic Exam,” “Female Pelvic Exam,” and “Female Breast Exam.”

It felt like a safe space to make mistakes, ask questions, and fumble a little bit – without feeling like I was in over my head

For many of us, this was our first session of Project Prepare – a 3-session, 8-hour course designed to teach medical students how to provide supportive care for patients in the area of sexual health. (The history of the program is included in this article.) The teachers in Project Prepare take the dual role of patient and educator, using their own bodies to help students learn how to perform pelvic and breast exams.

This was my first day of the course, and I was scheduled to do the female pelvic exam session with a patient-educator whom I’ll call Stacie. I had heard from other classmates who had already done this session that it was “intense” and that it took some time to emotionally recover afterwards. I’d heard from others that it was “incredible;” one classmate even said it made her to want to be a Project Prepare patient-educator herself. The many mixed messages rolled together in my mind and distilled into a single overwhelming sense of anxiety.

But Stacie made everything so easy. She didn’t beat around the bush about how awkward or uncomfortable the experience could be. The first thing she asked us was, “What have you heard about Project Prepare?” and when I said I’d heard it was “intense,” she responded, “Why do you think that is?” In doing so, she set the tone for the rest of the afternoon: gentle, filled with open-ended questions and non-judgmental responses.

Over the next three hours, Stacie guided a fellow classmate and me through the exam techniques and word choice that accompany the 5-part female pelvic exam. She pointed out nuances that would never have otherwise crossed my mind, like how saying “that’s perfect” and “great” are fine in other parts of a medical interview or exam but painfully awkward and even inappropriate in the context of a pelvic exam.

After the session, I looked up Project Prepare, curious as to how many medical schools invite the team to their campuses. I was surprised to see that only Stanford, Touro University College of Osteopathic Medicine (both in CA and NV), Kaiser, and UCSF are on Project Prepare’s list of clientele. Though I still have two sessions left, it is so clear to me that Project Prepare is a unique, effective way of teaching students the pelvic and breast exams. As a medical student, the idea of doing these delicate exams for the first time on a real patient (one who is not simultaneously a trained educator) is terrifying. I had this experience last year, at Stanford’s Arbor Free Clinic, where I performed my first pap smear, with the guidance of an attending physician. I recall how scared I felt that I might hurt my patient and somehow “mess up.” In contrast, my experience with Project Prepare felt like a safe space to make mistakes, ask questions, and fumble a little bit – without feeling like I was in over my head.

This week, I have two more sessions with the Project Prepare teaching team, and this time, my feelings leading up to the sessions are colored with excitement rather than anxiety. To the Project Prepare patient-educators: Thank you so much for sharing your time, your knowledge, and most of all, your bodies, with us, as we take this journey from classroom to clinic. Our medical school experience feels more complete because of you.

Hamsika Chandrasekar is a second-year student at Stanford’s medical school. She has an interest in medical education and pediatrics.

Previously: Reality Check: When it stopped feeling like just another day in medical school

Medical Education, Patient Care, SMS Unplugged

Dreaming vs. doing: How my definition of compassion changed during medical school

Dreaming vs. doing: How my definition of compassion changed during medical school

SMS (“Stanford Medical School”) Unplugged was recently launched as 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.

dreamingI woke up gasping for breath. My patients had died, and I was dying with them. Gradually, my mind unclouded and I realized that it had been a dream, but that realization didn’t soothe my worries. I lay in bed wide awake, anxious. I was picturing the woman who couldn’t speak due to a stroke, who squeezed my hand and raised her eyebrows urgently, asking me for something I couldn’t identify. Then I was remembering the very sick elderly man whose wife brought homemade soup to the hospital every day, and who always had a warm smile and a flurry of gratitude in Mandarin for anyone who entered his room. Their faces swam through my mind for a long time before I returned to sleep.

I was in the midst of my first clinical rotation. After two years focusing on the basic science of medicine, finally caring for actual patients was exhilarating and all-consuming. Even after long days in the hospital obsessing over what else I could do for my patients, I would talk about my clinical experiences on the phone with my mom, on runs with my friends, and over dinner with my husband. I lived and breathed my new role so completely that in my dreams, my patients’ deaths were synonymous with my own.

Now, two years later, I still love my days spent caring for patients in the hospital and clinic, but I don’t dream about my patients anymore. I rarely talk about my work over dinner. This wasn’t a purposeful change, and sometimes I wonder if it means I care less than I once did. I worry that I am Exhibit A for the predictable erosion of empathy that we’re all told to expect by the time we graduate from medical school.

In my more self-forgiving moments, I tell myself this change in how I experience patient care means that I’m learning to compartmentalize my experiences to survive the many emotionally demanding years ahead of me in the medical profession. Based on what I hear in the periodic group reflection sessions that we have in medical school, many students, as well as senior physicians,  agree that this kind of compartmentalizing is the key to avoiding burnout. After all, being completely present for the patient sitting in the room with me means learning to put aside other concerns – including thoughts about my other patients. The same goes for my ability to be present in the rest of my life as a wife, mother, or friend. However, in spite of all this, there is still a part of me that wonders if my growing ability to mentally put my patients’ problems aside will translate into a decline in empathy and passion for my work. After all, I didn’t come to medical school just to survive it – I came to medical school because I believed caring for patients was my calling. What does it say about me that I can so easily leave that passion at the door of the hospital?

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Medical Education, SMS Unplugged, Surgery

Rituals of the body – honoring the loss of bodily wholeness in medicine

Rituals of the body - honoring the loss of bodily wholeness in medicine

SMS (“Stanford Medical School”) Unplugged was recently launched as 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.

footWatching my first below-the-knee amputation on my surgery rotation, I felt a curious mix of revulsion and detachment. The woman on the operating table had a gangrenous infection that had spread across her foot. Her long history of smoking and her delay in seeking medical care meant that she had stiff, black toes by the time a surgeon first saw her. The only treatment was amputation.

In the operating room, the patient was draped such that only the leg was visible and exposed. The first incision was easy, a semicircle around the calf, and then the surgeons dissected down further until they hit bone. A bone saw sliced its way through the tibia, while the slimmer fibula was taken apart in chunks with a bone cutter. The skin and muscle were cut in a flap; the flaps were brought around over the bone and sewn together to create the stump.

The amputated leg sat on the scrub nurse’s table, next to a tray of retractors. The foot was balanced upright. The skin was smooth until the edge, where it gave way to jagged edges of flesh, remnants of blood vessels, and two cross-sections of bone. I felt unsettled with the amputated portion of the leg so close to me, a graphic reminder of what was lost.

What was it that troubled me? Maybe it had been the ordinariness of the moment when the body was divided up, its fibers severed with precision and focus, but no surprise, no significance. This patient would wake up some hours later, still groggy from the haze of anesthesia. Though she had signed a consent form, though this surgery had saved her, I wondered how she would she feel when she looked down at her leg.

Even in the absence of phantom pains or other sensory reminders of the missing part, dealing with an amputation is hard. It breaks the taken-for-grantedness of the body. It forces people to move through the world in new ways. These experiences made me think, can we imagine any ritual to mark a loss of bodily integrity? A pause to appreciate the work the body has done, and to prepare ourselves for its new form?

I witnessed many bodily transformations on my surgery rotation, as we do in medicine every day. But in our increasingly technical engagement with patients, do we forget the many social and cultural meanings of the body and its parts? Like why a patient may ask for his rib back after it is excised from his chest well to relieve obstruction, or why grieving parents of a stillborn child may want to bury the baby with her placenta? Perhaps a ritual could help physicians recover the awe and the empathy toward bodies we care for, and further connect to how our patients make sense of these changes.

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Medical Education, SMS Unplugged

"It’s tough feeling like you're always in a position to be judged" and other thoughts on medical school

"It’s tough feeling like you're always in a position to be judged" and other thoughts on medical school

SMS (“Stanford Medical School”) Unplugged was recently launched as 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.

One of the hardest parts about medical school for me has been the constant pursuit of approval. Having a pass/fail system during pre-clinical years helped ease things some, but there remains a personal desire to prove myself. In front of attendings, all I can focus on is performing my physical exam just right, presenting in the perfect manner, and nailing the assessment and plan. Unfortunately, my strong desire to look good in my evaluators’ eyes has led to missing learning opportunities at times. For example, I often passed up offers to do a procedure I really wanted to do, for fear that I would look bad if I messed up.

It’s tough feeling like you’re always in a position to be judged.

As I find myself in the middle of residency applications, I realize that this feeling of scrutiny has been elevated to a whole new level. And from this point, I’ll be judged on what is already done and how I’ve been evaluated on my rotations over the last few years. I can’t do anything more to change the “me” that those who review my application see. Part of the process is an interview, but it seems as if the interview has been taking place since I began medical school.

I’m extremely grateful for the training and preparation that Stanford has provided me, and I’m confident in my application – but the uncertainty is real. And the way I see it, my success with residency applications isn’t just reflective of me: I want to make my family and the Stanford faculty and mentors who have supported me along the journey proud.

As stressful as this process and the worry about judgment are, though, I’ve been trying to re-focus myself and “check my privilege.” To even be in the position of applying and interviewing for residency is huge. I’m months away from being able to put MD behind my name. As much as I could complain about how hard medical school has been, I’ve been blessed with a wonderful opportunity to be in a position to care for people when they most need it. And, in fact, of all the evaluations that we’re required to seek during a rotation, the ones I value most are from patients and their families.

For me, medicine comes easiest when my patients and their health outcomes are front and center in my mind –  not whether I stand out to my team or answer a tough question correctly. And so with my future patients in mind, it’s time to suit up (tie-clip and all). The work’s been done.

Moises Gallegos is a fourth-year medical student. He’ll be going into emergency medicine, and he’s interested in public-health topics such as health education, health promotion and global health.

Photo in featured-entry box by Yuya Tamai

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