“You are my hero”
[patients’ stories omitted]
When she finally emerged from the shower, I wanted to give her a hug. I wanted to say, “you are my hero”. Instead, I gave her a thumbs up and beamed at her beneath my mask. I felt a tug in my chest I could not articulate.
That same feeling overcame me as I watched J (nurse) give medications, change bedsheets, and bustle nonstop from one task to the next. When she talked to each patient, there was always a cheer in her voice. When the PSA received a phone call from another nurse still stressed from the previous day’s encounter with a patient’s family, J rushed over to the receiver to comfort her crying friend. Seeing that her colleague at another cubicle was bogged down with tasks, she helped to take all glucose levels and give insulin injections without being asked.
It was the same undying compassion I had seen in C (physiotherapist) and J (occupational therapist). All this, despite the forever hectic workload. All this, despite the shift ending two hours late and a night of unexplained sleeplessness before the morning shift. All this, despite being yelled at by the patient’s family without reason.
Even as I jumped in to push the wheelchair, carry the walking frame, serve food to patients, prepare bread and coffee, change bedsheets, push the patient to haemodialysis, carry the oxygen tank, and anything else that needed to be done, I was painfully aware of how little I was doing compared to the daily work of the nurses and allied health professionals. What little I could do, I did with gusto. I wanted to give every ounce of positive energy I had to the patients. While my smile was now masked, I hoped the energy radiated nonetheless.
Over the week, I saw little of the profession I was training towards. Yet I was grateful to have seen many of the others, and how they truly formed the bedrock of our healthcare. Their passion mirrored mine. I had to wonder if one day I would lose it. As I walked out of the ward on my last day, I vowed to myself that I would forever hold this fire in my heart. That I would never lose sight of my “why”. That each patient I treat, I would treat with compassion.
“Would you want…?”
On our first day in the wards, we walked out of the cubicle and noticed an abandoned walking stick leaning against the wall. As the physiotherapist picked it up to read the label, it must have dawned on her that no patients currently in that ward bore the name printed there. She must have thought it odd. Bemused, she went to check with the nurse at the computer. Her brows creased when no results surfaced upon a search for the patient’s name. Had the patient been discharged and left his walking stick behind by accident? Murmuring to themselves, the nurse and physiotherapist keyed in the patient’s NRIC into the registry. A matching result came up. The nurse clicked into the patient’s records. A small red tag hovered over the left of the screen. I had to squint to decipher the small print: “Deceased”.
It hit me then how frangible our lives were. While we, standing in the brightly lit hospital ward with our bodies intact and our breaths full, could whisper a soft “oh no” and move on, there were people—somewhere—who must have felt acutely this loss. And there was someone who had braved a battle against debilitating illness, and ultimately, lost.
Over the next few days, “mortality” became even more tangible. [patients’ stories omitted]
Would I consider my life worth living if I were far gone from living independently? No. Would I want to know everything that was going on with my body, even if it was an incurable or terminal illness? Yes.
All of us will come face-to-face with mortality one day; as doctors and healthcare professionals, we simply confront it earlier than most. And when we do, it must be with humanity. I know full well what I would choose. But not everyone will choose the same. In these scenarios and others, what we consider our patients’ “best interests” may be misguided. We have to constantly question. We have to understand. We have to feel with utmost compassion. In this realm, there is no dogma to be followed. Never must we allow our preconceived notions to supersede our patients’ beliefs, hopes and fears.
Note: These are truncated versions of my original reflections. All patients’ stories have been removed out of respect for patient confidentiality. I wish I could share with you the stories; there’s honestly so much more to it—so much more emotion. Now, these writings feel incomplete, but alas, it cannot be helped.
This page is where I share everything related to life in medical school. The posts here may take on a slightly more casual tone and journal-like writing style. Ultimately, they’re just honest accounts of a medical student’s experiences – which will hopefully give you a glimpse of what med school is really like. 😊