After bedside rounds on the other side of the hospital, I followed Dr. Lantra in the next patient's room.
"How are you today, sir? Has any one shared with you the results of your imaging studies?" he asked upon entering.
The man in the bed raised his head and lifted his wooden garage-door eyes to address the questioning doctor. His coarse silver and gray hair took the form of the impression left on his pillow. In another setting I imagined his hair spiking off the top of his head in all directions, reaching for more room to stretch out.
"No, doctor," was his strained reply. He swallowed. "No, doctor," he repeated more convincingly.
"The chest x-ray showed a shadow that is suspicious for cancer. They found a mass on bronchoscopy and sent a piece of it to pathology. We are still waiting for the results.
He smacked his lips together in a way that made his tattery and tapered beard jiggle back-and-forth for a couple of seconds. "Okay, then. We'll wait."
"How's your appetite?"
"Not too good. I've been sipping on my water; I never did like Jell-O." he said matter of fact.
We felt his belly. It was firm and full but it wasn't tender. His bowel sounds were normal. The abdomen was starkly contrasted to his skeletonized chest wall. The hospital gown barely stayed on his shoulders, but it didn't seem to bother him.
"Have you ever smoked, Sir?"
The yellow-blonde discoloration of his otherwise silver mustache was evidence enough but he dignified the question anyway. "Since I was 13 years old. That makes it, uhm, a little over 50 years." he said to his dutiful grown daughter listening patiently by his side. Then he looked out of the window.
Taking advantage of the silence, I briefly surveyed the room of this man who was so different from myself. I noticed his deodorant on the bedside table was only partially capped. The familiar red cylindrical tube was unmistakably the same brand of deodorant that I had used to freshen up earlier that same morning.
I took a moment to consider what I had just observed and then leaned forward, inching up to the bedside to listen a little closer.
-Brad Schow, 2012
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Schizo
“This patient hasn’t been here in years, and I’m going to read over his record before I see him,” said Dr. Smith. “Would you like to go in and talk to him until I come in?” “Sure,” I responded. I knocked and entered, introduced myself as a medical student and asked the patient why he’d come into the clinic that day. While he responded, I realized there was something different about this man, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. Our conversation was normal enough, but his mannerisms and appearance seemed strange. After a short time Dr. Smith entered and our conversation ended.
As the visit continued, I found my mind being dragged back to the Kerrigan Auditorium – back to a Medical Neuroscience lecture! This patient only left his apartment if absolutely necessary – social isolation. He was unshaven, unkempt, and wore ill fitting clothing – poor hygiene. He used to be very active in sports and other activities, but is now very inactive – lack of motivation and anhedonia. He avoided coming to the doctor for years because he believes something bad will happen to him – paranoia. Social isolation, poor hygiene, lack of motivation, anhedonia, paranoia – these are all symptoms of schizophrenia. As it turns out, the patient had been diagnosed with schizophrenia and major depression years earlier. After some impressive interviewing/motivating performed by Dr. Smith, we left the room.
Dan Cieslak
2014
As the visit continued, I found my mind being dragged back to the Kerrigan Auditorium – back to a Medical Neuroscience lecture! This patient only left his apartment if absolutely necessary – social isolation. He was unshaven, unkempt, and wore ill fitting clothing – poor hygiene. He used to be very active in sports and other activities, but is now very inactive – lack of motivation and anhedonia. He avoided coming to the doctor for years because he believes something bad will happen to him – paranoia. Social isolation, poor hygiene, lack of motivation, anhedonia, paranoia – these are all symptoms of schizophrenia. As it turns out, the patient had been diagnosed with schizophrenia and major depression years earlier. After some impressive interviewing/motivating performed by Dr. Smith, we left the room.
Dan Cieslak
2014
Friday, January 21, 2011
Fifteen Dollars
December 31st, a quiet night planned at home. Pizza and ice cream, Dick Clark, and the Waterford ball’s gleam will make the night complete. My afternoon is spent standing in line at the pizza shop and the custard counter, cheerfully exchanging wishes of “Happy New Year” while ordering pepperoni and sausage. Without much thought or attention, I pull two crisp bills from my wallet to fund our appetite. Fifteen dollars is a small price to pay for an evening of enjoyment, is it not?
Five hours before a new year begins, and the slate is again wiped clean, a shrill beeping sound interrupts the festive atmosphere. “Trauma alert,” the pager reads: “GSW to the thigh, times two, twenty-two year old male.” We stand by the doors of the trauma room, waiting to greet the incoming patient. A whoosh of crisp December air hits our faces as the doors to the ambulance bay open; a young man in bloodied clothes, appearing barely old enough to drive a car, lies listless on the stretcher. As in a well-choreographed dance, the perfectly synchronized team moves the body in one graceful motion to the bed. While the doctors peel back the bandages on his right and left thigh to reveal two gaping wounds, the sheriff recounts the details of the scene. “The patient and a friend were hanging out in his house; they got into a fight over fifteen dollars. The friend grabbed a rifle from the home and fired two shots into the patient.” Two crisp bills from his wallet. Fifteen dollars. An exorbitant price to pay for a youth’s vibrancy and innocence, is it not?
-Julie Owen, 2013
Five hours before a new year begins, and the slate is again wiped clean, a shrill beeping sound interrupts the festive atmosphere. “Trauma alert,” the pager reads: “GSW to the thigh, times two, twenty-two year old male.” We stand by the doors of the trauma room, waiting to greet the incoming patient. A whoosh of crisp December air hits our faces as the doors to the ambulance bay open; a young man in bloodied clothes, appearing barely old enough to drive a car, lies listless on the stretcher. As in a well-choreographed dance, the perfectly synchronized team moves the body in one graceful motion to the bed. While the doctors peel back the bandages on his right and left thigh to reveal two gaping wounds, the sheriff recounts the details of the scene. “The patient and a friend were hanging out in his house; they got into a fight over fifteen dollars. The friend grabbed a rifle from the home and fired two shots into the patient.” Two crisp bills from his wallet. Fifteen dollars. An exorbitant price to pay for a youth’s vibrancy and innocence, is it not?
-Julie Owen, 2013
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