Category: GHHS

GHHS, Narrative

Under Pressure

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Kameron King, M1, Class of 2027

This patient was just like all the others, and I treated her the same. With genuine care and love. She was the last patient of the day. Unfortunately, her procedure was unsuccessful. She came into recovery slightly irritated and under the post-anesthetic influence. After a short recovery, we rescheduled her procedure for numerous reasons. I was a Patient Care Tech in the Main Operating Room at a large hospital and my job was to get her to the car safely. A job I had mastered throughout my time in this role, so I thought nothing of it.

I had achieved a wonderful rapport with her, I would even consider us friends following the unlikely events that would shortly ensue. However, she was unique, not only because of her demeanor and hopeful personality, but her physique. She was 375 lbs. This did not stop her from smiling, laughing, and enjoying life to the fullest. As we laughed, and chatted about our lives, her husband got the car. Little did I know, this would be when everything changed.

I follow the protocol to a T; lock the wheelchair, patient on my right, wide gait for easy car access, and a sturdy foundation. I help her out of the chair, one hand entangled with hers and the other grasping the waistband of her pants.

Her left leg goes up to enter the passenger side of the vehicle. SNAP!
Her right leg breaks.

She immediately drops to the ground screaming in pain. As an aspiring medical student, there were very few things I knew how or what to do. Blood was going everywhere. Given the circumference of her leg, I only knew one way to acutely stop the flow, squeeze it. With her thigh in a chokehold. I begin yelling for help. I asked for tourniquets, gauze, a stretcher, and a transfer board to get her to the ER. With the simple supplies I had, I wrapped 4 tourniquets around her leg and placed many layers of gauze around the exposed tissue and held pressure.

After a few minutes, other medical personnel began to arrive. It took approximately 6 of us to maneuver the board under her in such distress and move her onto the stretcher. As we entered the ED, I was asked by the attending to give a rundown of what happened. Honestly, I don’t remember what I said because it all happened so fast. I was also just so concerned about the patient that I couldn’t even think about myself. Until my nurse manager was made aware of what had happened and came to the ED to see me. Her first words were “Wow, you have a lot of blood on you.” After some time, I had changed and the initial shock of the events had gone down, the on-call orthopedic surgeon came up to me and said “You know, you started this, why don’t you come and finish it.” He knew I was entering medical school in the fall and since I had worked in the OR for a couple of years at that point, he let me scrub in and assist with the reduction and fixation of this wonderful woman’s procedure. This was my initial spark for orthopedic trauma.

I stayed that evening until 8:30 to make sure she made it to her room. Over the next few weeks, I would check on her to make sure she was recovering well. Not only did this experience propel me into a better understanding of what patients have to go through every day, but also the unexpected things in medicine and how to be a strong advocate for patients. I will never forget the patient who put me under the most pressure at such an early point in my medical career.

GHHS, Narrative, Poetry

Love your Patients

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Simon Longhi, M3, Class of 2025

Love                       your Patients.

Her voice shakes
Gaze averts down, slowly,
hiding welled-up eyes.
But she takes a deep breath,
and states
for me:
“I feel like I’m falling apart inside… but, no.
They’re my kids, they’ve got their own lives,
… I can’t put that burden on them.”

I glance down, quickly,
at my quadrant-folded, wrinkled sheet of paper.
Lurching for an anchor– the right thing to say next,
from my scrawled, inadequate
pre-charting mess:
Myra M., 59yo lady, hx MDD moderate in remission, GAD
HR rep, three adult children, married 33 yrs
Lives w/husband (restaurant mgr, stopped working)–
recent frontotemporal dementia dx.

Myra was losing her husband, quickly.
She was becoming alone, slowly.
Her wrenching words,
yet suppressing outright despair.
Self-aware weakness,
yet wearing strength for others.
Devastating dichotomy.
I know this. Feel this.
My lips quiver, my own space behind the eyes
wells up,
because…
I saw my mom, in Myra.

My mom sacrificed everything,
for my sisters–
Autistic. Aggressive. Screaming.
Incontinent. Inconsolable. Seizures.
Innocent. Utterly un-independent.
Too much.
Worry constant, peace extinct.

The whole story feels untellable.
As a kid, processing this,
Puts the proverbial tip of the iceberg
To shame.

But Dad worked, paid the bills,
And really, I got to live free
without that wrenching responsibility.
Because, my mom insisted on it.
… Well, not in words, mostly unspoken
But I promise you, she lived it,
for me.
She may as well have said:
“Simon, I love you, do all that you ever want
with your life – Don’t worry about your sisters, please.
Keep going, don’t hold back, this is not your burden,
I got it. The world is yours, and this burden is mine.”

All of that past
is here now
in this clinic room.
In the span of a second or so, I feel everything
for this patient I just met.
I fold and re-fold the edges of my paper
Grip my pen more tightly,
as if it can absorb my nerves,
and contain a shudder in my chair.
Myra… mom… meaning.
Beautifully blurred lines in my mind.
I know where my compassion comes from,
and I’m proud of that.

But, I’m the healer now.
I have to be strong
this time– for my patient
For Myra.
FOCUS, on taking deeper history,
FOCUS, on forming treatment plan.
Love your patient, sure,
but don’t fall off that cliff of transference.
Yes, take in the view
That harrowing expanse.
But teeter well
on that cliff’s edge
Stay standing.
It’s your solemn duty.

Okay, deep breath–
next questions,
but still, keep listening.
Watery eyes are fine,
but no tears,
not right now.
Guide Myra on.
It’s my calling, my honor–
what my mom
Selflessly
imagined for me
all along.

I love                  you.

“Oh. Okay. ‘Burden’. Tell me more about that.”

GHHS, Narrative

Two sides

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Ryan Asauskas, MS3, Class of 2025

So one of them is gone
She just stared ahead
She had one child left inside her and could not dwell on
But, Her face, it grew cherry red
But, Her eyes swelled with tears
But she had tried so hard to make a life
But come to pass was her greatest fear
She would see her child in the afterlife
So long had she tried to make a child
So long had she waited for that new baby’s cry
Now her new life will have to be reconciled
She said goodbye and thank you
She left

So I have another one of them
She said with glee
She had one less child inside and one more outside a new gen
With 5 children now she could not believe her happy reality
Her family thanked and cried tears of joy
All her pregnancies were happy stories in the end
Each one ended with a boy
With only happiness did she have to contend
She said goodbye and thank you
She left

One patient lost a whole world
One patient gained a world unique
One patient after another
One room after another
One emotion after another
One life and one death after another
One face after another
Just one day after another

How do you do that when all you hear is:
Don’t you know that, you’re a doctor
You went to school for so long
I expect you to know biology
I expect you to know chemistry
I expect you to know anatomy
I expect you to understand me
I expect you to help me
I expect you to consul me
I expect you to comfort me
I expect you to save me
I expect you to save my child
Why did you fail

How do you stop this vocation when you hear:
Thank you for listening
Thank you for talking to me, that’s all I needed
Thank you for taking care of them, we couldn’t
Thank you for helping me
Thank you, I feel much better
I trust you doctor, do what is best
I trust you to make the right choice
I trust you with my family, my child, my wife
I trust you with my life

GHHS, Narrative

Bearing the Burden

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Dylan Wentzel, M3, Class of 2025

It was an ordinary day on the Benign Gynecologic Surgery service, filled with routine cases and hurried movements. I had just finished assisting with the usual procedures when I glanced over my schedule and sensed that the upcoming case, a dilation and evacuation, was far from ordinary. This case was different—it carried a weight that set it apart.

The procedure involved a young couple who had recently suffered the devastating loss of their first child. As I met them, grief clung to the air. The wife, still immersed in sadness, was led to the operative area with tears streaming down her face. Stepping into the operating room, a palpable shift in atmosphere enveloped us; everyone acknowledged the profound significance of what we were about to undertake.

As the D&E progressed, we faced the solemn task of removing fetal parts from the uterus. It felt surreal, as if we were handling the fragments of a future that would never be realized. Sorting through the remnants of a life left me questioning the essence of this medical intervention—it didn’t align with my perception of medicine.

As the procedure neared its end, the attending physician seemed to grasp the internal struggle I, and perhaps any medical student, was experiencing. She took a moment to pull me aside and shared a perspective that resonated deeply: performing this challenging procedure was a means to spare the patient from the anguish of going through labor to deliver a nonviable child. She conveyed, “We bear this burden so our patients don’t have to.” In that moment, the realization struck me that this encapsulated the essence of medicine—an intricate balance of confronting hardships to help shield patients from unbearable realities.

While medicine encompasses incredible aspects, it also introduces challenges that test our resolve. There will be difficult days, but our duty is to bear burdens so our patients can navigate their struggles with as much ease as possible. The arduous moments serve a purpose—to make other lives a little better.

After the procedure, we approached the husband to reassure him. Witnessing the attending physician comforting him, she handed over a small piece of paper bearing the footprints of their lost child. It was a poignant reminder of the honor and responsibility physicians carry, being present in patients’ lowest moments. I walked away with a profound understanding of our duty—to share the weight of these moments with respect and reverence, embracing the privilege of standing alongside our patients during their most challenging times.

GHHS, Narrative, Poetry

Sonder: A Call to Kindness

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Hunter Hiegert, MS3, Class of 2025

A mob of doctors, an entourage of studentsEager to impress, chock-full of prudenceAs rounds persists, patient rooms fly byDespite their smiles, we don’t even say hi
 
And in the midst as I begin to wonderIn creeps the feeling of immense sonder.Countless lives unique from you and me.Limitless moments of hope, sorrow, and glee.
 
Stories untold, with lives unknownDreams fulfilled, yet candles unblownThe realization experiences are infiniteA potent sense of overwhelming belittlement
 
These fleeting thoughts, quick as a breathStill time marches, inevitable deathYet in this vastness, a purpose revealedTo live with kindness, a weapon to wield
 
Each life in need, a beacon of opportunityAwake each day, emit positivitySo no matter the duty, large or smallEmbrace humanity, our selfless call

GHHS, Narrative

The Sound of Healing

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Jonathon Liu, MS3, Class of 2025

Throughout my clerkships, I have encountered many patients, each teaching me valuable lessons about disease processes, pharmacology, and the underlying science of medicine. However, beyond the technical knowledge, it is the patient interactions that I cherish deeply. My experiences have also underscored the importance of bedside manners and the establishment of a strong rapport with patients. The art of delivering compassionate, patient-centered care is fundamental, enabling physicians to truly connect with their patients, understand their experiences, and facilitate more effective healing. Humanism is, indeed, a quintessential element in medicine. During my Internal Medicine Clerkship, I had an encounter that brought this abstract lesson to life—fundamentally shaping my approach to medicine.

In the ICU, I met a patient grappling with unstable atrial fibrillation and a host of cardiovascular complications as a direct result of poorly managed type 2 diabetes mellitus. Yet, his physical ailments barely scratched the surface of his suffering. Initially, I entered his room to gather his medical history using the comprehensive approach taught at my home institution—covering chief complaints, medical history, family history, social history, and more while simultaneously being expected to efficiently collect and report the necessary information to our medical team. However, our conversations soon unveiled a narrative steeped in frustration, anxiety, and a profound sense of abandonment. He shared his long struggle with type 2 diabetes mellitus and the daunting side effects of metformin that had overwhelmed him—nausea, vomiting, bloating, and a repulsive metallic taste. When he sought help, his concerns were dismissed, leading him to resort to unproven supplements. His condition deteriorated, necessitating insulin, which he avoided due to fear of experiencing similar or worse side effects.

Recognizing the depth of his disillusionment, I made a commitment as his student doctor to work to unpack his fears and concerns. I promised my patient that I would advocate for him to my medical team. Day by day, beside his bed, our conversations blossomed beyond healthcare, touching upon his life, fears, hopes, and dreams. I learned of his service as a war veteran, his passion for exploring local restaurants, his and his wife’s adventurous spirits, and his profound kindness and love for his family. Our conversations became something we both looked forward to daily. These moments of shared humanity reminded me of the significant impact empathy and active listening can have on kindling a relationship with my patient.

Together, we navigated his health fears, exploring alternative treatments while his concerns and preferences were at the forefront of all decision-making processes. This patient-centric approach reignited his motivation to manage his diabetes, marking a pivotal shift in his treatment journey. By forming a strong bond through daily interactions, I became a more effective advocate for him, amplifying his voice, supporting him through his improvements, managing side effects, and navigating setbacks.

This experience reinforced a fundamental truth: healing transcends the physical aspects. Medicine demands humanity, which can only be achieved through nurturing strong, trusting relationships with patients. When we take the time to genuinely connect with our patients, listening intently and empathizing deeply, we can significantly transform the quality of their healthcare. At the heart of medicine lies this simple, profound principle: to care for another is to see them, hear them, and stand with them in their moments of vulnerability. This encounter has indelibly shaped my understanding of what it means to heal, reminding me that the core of humanism in healthcare is the profound connection between a doctor and their patient.

GHHS, Narrative

Remembering

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Cooper Root, MS3, Class of 2025

My first trauma surgery call shift was on a regular Thursday night. It was very slow and nothing eventful happened most of the night. I was able to sit at the hospital and complete all my studying, and even managed to get plenty of extra work done as well. I went to sleep, the pager had yet to go off, and it seemed like it would be a straightforward night. At about 3:30 AM my pager went off multiple times in a row – Level I trauma ETA 5 minutes. I scrambled to get ready and hustled down to the trauma bay. I arrived to hear there was an apartment fire and we actually had 3 individuals arriving simultaneously. I knew my role and prepared to fill out the injury sheet, cut clothes, grab blankets, and anything else to help. To my surprise, I did none of that when I saw the patient. A young girl was wheeled in with no pulse and CPR machine on her chest. She suffered extensive burns to her entire body. The CPR device was removed, and I was thrust to the bedside to immediately begin chest compressions. In a state of shock, I began this process, frequently getting told “faster, deeper, pick up the pace”. After a few minutes that felt like hours, someone relieved me of my duties but to no avail. The patient never regained a pulse and was pronounced dead within minutes of arrival. Rather than take time to process and grieve, two more patients get wheeled in with other injuries from the fire as well. I was immediately sent to go help those patients, without a moment to reel in how I had felt from one of my few direct experiences with death.

Medicine can be so fast paced and dynamic, one of the many aspects we all love about the field. We are considered excellent in these moments of sudden change, creating a fully functioning team with assigned roles and responsibilities in a matter of seconds. It is fascinating how effective a few random healthcare workers can become a multi-functional fluid machine in moments of extreme chaos. But often we tend to act exactly like that, a machine, once these moments pass. Calculated, automated, analytical, and unemotional. The team did a great job, and I felt as if they all truly cared about what they were doing and trying to save this woman’s life. As the years go by and these instances occur often, it’s human nature to glance past the gravity and finality of what we deal with on a daily basis. I am likely more guilty of this than anyone, as I was essentially numb to this experience until writing this essay, and fully comprehending that someone’s life ended in front of my eyes, someone younger than myself. I couldn’t tell you a thing about this person unfortunately, other than her injuries, and that we did what we could to save her, and that is a strange feeling as well, considering most of my experiences with death have been older family members, or at least people I know on a personal basis. How did she spend her last day? What were her goals in life? What did she think about before drifting off to sleep? Questions that will never be answered for me, and an experience that will never be taken from me. Ultimately, what this experience did for me was to provide a challenge. A challenge to never lose sight of the person within the patient, rather than the disease, injury, or pathology that may be affecting them. Sometimes the best way to honor a patient is just put your head down and do everything you can to save others and take solace in the fact that you will do everything you can to save the next.

To her friends, family, and loved ones – I am truly sorry for your loss. I wish there was more we could have done. I hope to honor this experience with this essay, which is nothing compared to having her here with us. I hope you all have found some sense of solace in your loss. She will not be forgotten.

GHHS, Narrative

What Will Happen Next?

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Emma Beason, M2, Class of 2026

“What will happen next?”
A question filled with despair.
Imprinting its cruelty, spreading its ashes,
The dream of a future being left behind.

Taking in the two trembling parents
Tired eyes, soft voices, accepting defeat,
Staring down at the two young souls.
One will make it, one will not,
The only sound a muffled weep.

“What will happen next?”
Four words echoing in my mind.
The words I offer cannot relieve
The suffering laid before me.

Nothing could have stopped
This brutal twist of fate
In this field of wonder and miracles,
There are times we cannot escape.

GHHS, Narrative, Poetry

Eyes closed, instincts trusted.

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Cole Bird, MS2, Class of 2026

During college, I decided to teach myself how to play piano. It began with a timidly, with my eyes glued downward, trying to coordinate my hand eye movements. After a while, I began to get more confident, slowly walking through song after song. A milestone for my journey learning piano was the first time I got lost in the music, closing my eyes and trusting my hands would find the right keys.

Fast forward to an ordinary night at the JayDoc health clinic. It was the summer after my first year in medical school, and the familiarity of the ophthalmology clinic welcomed me once again. I eagerly anticipated the first patient of the night.

I walked down to the hall towards the waiting room. As Isla’s primary language is Spanish, I grabbed one of the interpreters before starting the visit. I called over Isla and introduced myself. Together, we walked down the halls until we reached the visual acuity chart, where I guided Isla through the examination. This was not my first rodeo, but Isla’s difficulty with the large letters hinted at a more complex story. We documented the results and proceeded to the exam room.

Running through the typical questions and exams, I sensed that Isla’s condition was more severe than those I had encountered before. Anticipating a quick fix for what seemed like cataracts, I dilated Isla’s pupils, informing her that it would take about 20 minutes for the medicine to take full effect. At that point, we would go across the hall and the ophthalmology resident would take a better look at her eyes. She smiled and said thank you. I left the room right behind the interpreter.

I began working on my post-encounter note. It’s easier for me to prepare my case presentation if I transcribe my chicken scratch into the EHR. Once the resident was ready, I presented Isla’s case. Since the 20 minutes had elapsed, we decided the best next step was the slit-lamp room. All the interpreters were occupied, so I dialed a language line on my phone. Isla smiled when I entered the room and joined me as we walked into the slit-lamp room. I handed her my phone so she could hear the interpreter the best. The resident began his exam. Typically, the residents call out elements of the exam so that I can note them down in the chart. This time he was very quiet. I assumed the words were just to complex for me to know how to spell (a common occurrence).

As the resident concluded the exam, he asked a series of weighted questions. I am no medical veteran, but I do know how to spot doctor talk – especially when it’s a doctor about to break bad news. The resident said he really wanted to attending physician to take a look at her eyes before giving a final diagnosis. I escorted Isla back to exam room and then had a debrief with the resident.

To spare the patients privacy, we will keep her diagnosis vague. But in simplest terms, her vision was terminal. It would not get better, and unfortunately, there was no operation or medication we could provide to improve her symptoms. I could tell that the resident had seen this presentation a few times, but it was still hard for him to state the treatment plan, or lack there of.

The attending saw Isla and confirmed the diagnosis. We had to relay everything through the virtual interpreter. And while the attending and resident had the utmost compassion, there is a level of empathetic sterility that happens when you communicate through a phone. Isla was justifiably shocked. I brought her back to the exam room to give her time to process. She was holding it together, but the moment she sat down in the room, she sobbed. The intense emotion compelled me to sit beside her. We just sat there. No interpreter. No words. Just an instinctual emotional experience that transcended language.

After what felt like an eternity, I contacted the interpreting service to address any lingering questions Isla might have. A brief conversation ensued, culminating in her request to leave. Ensuring she had the necessary information for the next steps, I escorted her out of the clinic.

Alone in a back stairwell, I concluded my notes with a growing pit in my stomach. The desire to contemplate this moment clashed with the reality of more patients awaiting my attention. I had to keep moving forward. The undeniable truth is, moving on seems both impossible and, more importantly, inappropriate. Isla’s impact resonates in every patient encounter. She wasn’t just a case; she was a reminder that we, physicians, have the power to transform routine moments into life-altering ones. She instilled in me the invaluable skill of slowing down and illuminated the humanity within the realm of medicine.

Now, as I lose myself in the melody of the piano, entrusting my instincts to guide me, I feel Isla’s presence. Eyes closed, instincts trusted. It’s a visceral reminder, a tribute to her enduring influence. Isla, may life grant you moments of profound immersion, where, despite your limited sight, self-trust, and peace envelop you.

GHHS, Narrative

Delivering Care

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Marisa-Nicole Zayat, MS4, Class of 2024

“Patients do not care how much you know until they know how much you care,” my dad, a physician, told me as I started my clinical rotations. These words have echoed through my head during many patient encounters.

During my obstetrics and gynecology clerkship, I assisted on Jane’s cesarean-section. In awe of the surgeon’s skills, I carefully observed as the team operated. The skin and fascia were dissected, the uterus was exposed, the baby was delivered and immediately whisked by the NICU team out of the room, and Jane was sutured layer by layer. The operation was uncomplicated, so the surgeons went to their next procedure. Jane was left alone, lying on a narrow, cold OR table. I heard her say, “it hurts, goodness, it hurts so bad.” I wiped her tears and gently held her hand while providing comfort and reassurance. It was all that I could do. The next day I could not stop thinking about Jane. I felt compelled to check on her, and she welcomed me with a sadness in her eyes—she could not visit her baby in the NICU since she was non-ambulatory. I offered to take a video of Lucy, which we watched together. Tears rolled from Jane’s eyes, but these were different; these were tears of joy. The following day during rounds, I found Jane to be distraught. She had to send her older kids to her parents in Missouri since she did not know when she was going to be discharged. “I don’t know when I will see my kids next,” she shared. Tears of helplessness streamed down her face. I encouraged her to share her concerns with the medical team. I let my attending know about the situation, and he reassured her that she would be dismissed in the next day or two. When I reported when she would be reunited with Lucy and the rest of her family, she was relieved and finally beamed with delightful hope.

Another patient encounter comes to mind when reflecting on lessons of empathy in medicine. Sarah, a 24-year-old, was admitted for labor, which was complicated by fetal bradycardia. She was quickly rushed to C-section, leaving her mother behind to wonder what might happen next. I stayed by her mother’s side and comforted her during this time of uncertainty. Six months later, my dad came home, excitedly announcing that one of his patients told him that she had met me while her daughter was delivering. She shared the story and told him that I was very kind, compassionate, and made them feel at ease. What a privilege for me to be there, I thought to myself.

As a physician-in-training, I feel honored, humbled, and grateful as patients allow me into their lives at times of vulnerability and need. Medicine is truly the art of healing, for health is the product of a nourished body, spirit, and mind. My dad’s words seem to echo even more true as I further my training. What distinguishes an outstanding physician is the empathy and compassion that they have for their colleagues and patients—caring makes all the difference.