4 minute read
of Our Patients By Medical Students
55 Word Stories -
Discovering and Honoring the Voices of Our Patients
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By Medical Students
Medical students in the Class of 2023 at UT Health San Antonio Long School of Medicine use the writing of stories to find humanity and meaning in their clinical experiences. This collection of stories reveals the complexity, vulnerability and compassion woven in the threads of conversations with their patients and the discovery of the power of connection through close listening.
An old man trips over a dog. Non-operable pelvic fracture, ortho signs off. “I better get home to my cats,” he smiles, “I never liked dogs.” Suddenly his delirium is a fire we cannot put out. One dose of haloperidol, then another. One call to his daughter, then another. Soon, the smoke smothers any hope for a discharge note.
In medicine, there are times we do not have answers; all we have is our humanism and care.
By Salma Yazji
He was a grumpy man, Full of sassy retorts and eye rolls, someone we sometimes did not want to see. But then he got sicker and it seemed like we couldn’t do anything to help. All his organs are failing. And I wish he could tell me I asked a dumb question one last time.
By Michelle Sutanto
I itch, I’m tired And on a scale of 1-10… We medicalize her pain Emesis, malaise, abdominal tenderness Her slipping grasp on a bright future Already a pediatric cancer survivor Now her faltering pancreas Disassembling her dreams block by block I sit on the bed’s edge, hesitantly Does it hurt? Sure, everywhere, I guess.
I wrote this piece as a reflection on how sometimes it can be difficult to balance caring for our patient’s physical and mental health while in the hospital, especially as a trainee where we feel like our time is so limited and these conversations can be vulnerable and daunting. Caring for her was a privilege, and she taught me a great deal about the importance of establishing trust with patients and giving them the space and time in the hospital to be more than a diagnosis.
By Marybeth Wootan Holst
Eight eyes on the vent. Four backs to the patient. He looks like he’s sleeping.
His chest rises. His chest falls. He looks like he’s breathing.
A young woman sits beside him. Red eyes on white coats And black Patagonias.
She wills them to turn around. And see her.
By Yolanda Crous
I barely knew who you were. Trying to understand your rapid decline was difficult enough, let alone standing beside you trying to communicate while unable to understand your slurred words. Your son said you’d been mentally sharp, a beloved caretaker. Then, two days later I stood before you as you took your last breaths alone.
This moment has stayed with me, and I do not think I will ever forget all of the raw feelings I experienced from both myself and the patient’s family. I was in charge of contacting her family members in order to find out more about her baseline mental status. I felt satisfied to have been the person to share such important information with the son and to be able to be a conduit for his frustrations with the healthcare system. It served as an important reminder to follow up with patients’ families as soon as it is possible and reasonable.
By Aimee Ramirez
Bad things happen to good people. The diagnosis: end stage lung cancer. He cried out, “How did this happen to me? I never smoked a day in my life. Why, God?” He and his wife sobbed together as if he was already gone. I didn’t know why. Why do bad things happen to good people?
By Marie Vu
I hope he doesn’t come back.
He looks tired and his legs are still swollen, yet there is a strong note of conviction as he says, “I tell everyone, if you are sick and you are not at THIS hospital, you’re stupid.” I smile and silently, desperately hope that he doesn’t come back when he leaves. He’s back a week later.
This showed me the positive experience we can have with patients. It also presented the strange dichotomy that comes with working in a hospital: both liking a patient and hoping you never see them again, because it would mean they were back in the hospital. It also showed me the hard reality of dealing with a patient with chronic disease.
By Matthew Maia
She walked in but not out.
It was never meant to go like this. Sure, she was losing blood somehow. But slowly. She walked in to the hospital that day. Two days later, she was intubated, lost part of her gut. Her family told us she was a fighter. She loved life. We couldn’t save her, though. She didn’t walk out.
At the beginning of my third year of medical school, while on an ICU rotation, I had the opportunity to learn from the patient who is the subject of this story. The experience subsequently impacted the way I interact with patients, particularly those who are unable to communicate verbally. The capacity to convey your fears, concerns, and hopes to your physician is so important. As future physicians, we have a responsibility to advocate for our patients, and sometimes that means being their voice when they cannot speak. We have to make every effort to do so with the utmost integrity and compassion.
