One of the things I liked best about practicing medicine is that I was constantly learning.
Making rounds at seven in the morning on an oncology floor would be a chore if you didn’t get to examine and think and figure out what’s happening to a man with leukemia whose platelets are dangerously low, or whose lymphoma is responding to treatment but can’t take anymore medicine because of an intense, burn-like rash. You’d have to look stuff up, sort among clues and discuss the case with the team and other physicians.
And then you’d get to talk to the patients and their families. In the teaching hospital where I worked as a clinical oncologist, you’d encounter a mix of folks from my east side neighborhood, Russian and Chinese and Spanish-speaking immigrants with homes in all parts of New York City, and a spectrum of visitors from countries like Cambodia, Pakistan and Ecuador. Each case offered a window into another family’s values and concerns.
Being a patient is an entirely different sort of experience except that, like being a doctor, it involves learning about medicine, problem-solving and meeting all kinds of individuals.
As a child with scoliosis – a curved spine – I discovered early that some therapies don’t work as you might hope or expect. I wore a back brace for 4 years, 23 hours each day, and it didn’t do the job. Then, my parents took me to consult with most of a dozen male orthopedists. Their crassness, frankness and sometimes kindness impressed me. I realized that like any other humans – whether they’re dictators or shopkeepers – doctors vary in their personalities.
Today I recall one young doctor who helped me, a resident at the Hospital for Joint Diseases. He came by my room early in the evening of December 31, 1974 because I needed a new intravenous (IV) catheter. By then I’d been in the hospital for weeks after spine surgery; there was hardly a vein left for heparin, a blood-thinner. It turned out the resident came from a town on Long Island not far from where I lived. He spoke openly, about his experiences in high school, as he calmly and patiently patted down my arms and hands and legs and feet until he found a spot for the IV. He got the line in, and I got my medication.
Just before midnight, Dick Clark was on TV for a “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.” The resident, whose name I don’t recall, came by to see how I was doing. He stayed for perhaps 15 minutes, for what seemed like no reason other than to keep me company. We counted the seconds and watched the ball drop on a small black-and-white TV suspended by a hinged-metal arm over my hospital bed.
He was compassionate, and that made me feel better. What a difference he, one essentially unnamable young physician, made in my experience of that New Year’s eve in the hospital, and in my life and work.
Today, December 31, I think of him as I navigate my path as a patient and as a doctor. I’m still learning about medicine, every day in each new year.