I love stories, always have. When I was young my parents
would reward me with books and subsequently take them away as punishment. I think
this love of story is part of my draw to medicine; my career will be centered
around interactions with people. I will have to learn almost all the pertinent
information needed to diagnose and treat a presenting condition, directly from
the stories told by people I encounter in my exam rooms.
I have recently moved across the country, in order to attend
medical school, and I now find myself in a small suburb of Chicago. In my
little suburb, there are always events happening. Festivals, concerts, deals on
dinner to allow you to try all the restaurants—it’s a fun place.
However, my suburb also moves at a much slower pace of life
than I am used to—and I have been learning about slowing down to take it all
in. So, today I decided to take my reading homework outside in the community. I
eventually ventured toward the public library’s lawn, which I realized was
being set up for a concert. I found my bench: in the sun, close to some people
but further from the music, and slowly a crowd started to form.
Enter to the scene: Bob.
Now I am not sure how, but Bob was able to figure out by
just walking by me and saying hello, that I was a medical student. My bench had
remained unoccupied until this point, despite the filling crowd. No less than a
minute later, however, Bob sits right next to me—separate only by the water bottle
I had set down when I first arrived. I don’t think too much of it, but when I glance
from my reading, I know I’m in for a story.
From my initial assessment of Bob, I notice that he is well
dressed, older (60s at least), and I quickly learn he knows almost every person
in the park by name. Over the next 15-20 minutes, Bob’s story is told to me in
small, repetitive, snippets. I assess the repetition is most likely due to the short-term
memory loss he retains as one of the only, obvious symptoms secondary to his “massive
cerebral vascular accident” (stroke) which brought him to Loyola School of
Medicine Emergency Department as a “code blue” (unresponsive patient), 40 years
ago.
As I listen to Bob, I gain significant insight into my
medical school and the people who work there from a perspective that could only
come from a patient. He and his neurosurgeon who was (at the time of his emergency
craniotomy) chief of neurosurgery at Loyola, have since become great friends,
family even.
Bob tells me that he calls this physician, who no longer is
in practice, often—just to update him about his life. He reverently refers to
the physician because he feels he owes him his life. He tells me about each of
the neurosurgeon’s children, and he also notes all the medical people within
his own nieces and nephews. And while I am listening to these snippets of
story, he intermittently stops and interjects to say hi, by name, to each of
the passersby.
Can you imagine, that the book I was reading for my medical
school doctoring class (Patient Centered Medicine) was discussing the inherent
necessity for empathy in the medical practice? That I was reading about was
discussing specifically, the need for physicians who listen and discover what
kind of person has the disease, not just what kind of disease the
person has? And that as I read said book, into my world walked a living,
breathing example of how this could be lived out? I also was able to see how
well the patient could fair after a significant operation (he showed me his scar)
directly due to how he was and continues to be cared for, by his physician.
Eventually, one of Bob’s many friends joined us on the bench,
and I was able to finish my reading before heading home. But I think the
importance of listening to a patient and being with them through the journey of
healing will always be somehow connected to Bob. I had previously observed this
from the physician side during my countless hours as a scribe, but
understanding the impact an invested physician had on a random patient was unique.
Overall, it makes me excited to become a practicing
physician—but for now I am grateful that my education will be gained at an
organization who produces physicians worthy of telling stories about to
strangers in the park.
