Category: GHHS

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.

GHHS, Narrative

Leaves in the Wind

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Joshua Lawton, MS3, Class of 2025

With the coming of autumn comes the falling of leaves, a perpetual nuisance to anyone who has had to maintain a lawn. Whenever a leaf falls, it must be raked and bagged and set out by the curb to be picked up and thrown away. When surveying a yard full of colorful leaves, the last thing I think about when raking is bending over, picking up and intently examining a leaf. I am thinking about getting the task ahead of me done. However, to some picking up and studying a single leaf comes second nature. When I was a child, I remember how my grandmother would encourage us to find the most beautiful leaves. We would bring a handful of leaves inside, in reds, oranges and yellows, from oak, birch, mimosa, maple, and more. Then with crayons and printer paper, we would make rubbings of the leaves so we could admire the delicate veins, spidering outwards from the stem. Once we were done, my grandmother would press the leaves flat between the pages of the book so they could dry and be saved. From time to time, she still will find a leaf pressed in a book that she had forgotten.

When I start my day at the hospital, I often look at what has to be done, studies, presentations, practice questions, papers, and, yes, even patients, like that yard full of leaves, a task that needs to be done. I think about getting done with one task so I can do the next task. However, sometimes I need to set the rake down and appreciate a single unique leaf. Especially when it comes to patients, taking time to look and listen can make a difference for the patient and for you, making sure that they are heard and not forgotten. One experience I will never forget is from my internal medicine clerkship. We had one patient, an older, homeless man with metastatic cancer, who was causing us trouble. He would refuse everything. He would refuse treatments for the cancer, daily labs, and palliative care. He would refuse to allow us to coordinate with his brother, so he could have a place to stay. Then he would just be quiet and grumble about the lights and people. Yet, other than the hospital staff, he was entirely alone. We were not sure what to do. However, when I would go see him alone in the morning on my rounds, he would be more friendly and open to labs, treatment, and discussions about his care. I felt a little nudge inside of me saying to go see him. So, one afternoon when I was dismissed early, I went up to his room to see him and just sit and talk to him.

I did not take a notebook or pen but just went myself. He was wearing a shirt with a bright and flashy hot rod depicted in bold colors, so I asked him about it. First, we talked about cars, how he used to fix up cars, and he told me how he always wanted to own an auto shop. Then he opened up, he told me about his childhood growing up on a ranch, how he and his brother were suspended from school once and how their father sent them to trim every fence post on their land to the exact same height as punishment. He told me about his time selling horses on the West Coast and working on a fishing boat up north. He told me about friends who had been in and out of his life. Like the intricacies of veins on a leaf, branching out from the central stem, this man’s life began to unfurl before me. No longer sat before me a frustrating patient, but instead a man with a life full of experiences, deserving, like all people, of respect. Over the next few days, the team was able to work better with him and create a plan of treatment and a place for him to go.

When a leaf falls from a tree, soon it will be blown away in the wind, but for the brief moment that it falls into my hand, I now take a moment, take in its color, pattern, and shapes. I think about where it has been and where it might go. Patients are more than a disease, demographic, or task to be completed. Everyone has a story to tell.

GHHS, Narrative

Dual Roles: When Your Patient is Your Parent

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Daniel Yeremin, MS3, Class of 2025

Medical school has challenges for everyone; 2023 was especially stretching for me. One such challenge occurred during my neurology clerkship. On the second day of my rotation, I received a text that my father was going to the hospital for some head imaging, the same hospital in which I was currently working. He had been unwell for several days with what my parents had assumed was ‘the flu.’ This update surprised me. I met several family members in a waiting room downstairs as my father was taken to imaging. We waited for what I think was several hours before the doctors returned, explaining that they needed to admit him to the neuro critical care unit.

For nearly two weeks, my days were divided between attending to my patients during the day and spending my evenings and weekends with my father down the hall. At one point, I was even part of the rounding team who cared for my father. My father loved joking that I was on “”double duty”” as son and student. He would often request a prescription refill from “”Dairy Queen Pharmacy,”” colloquially known as a Turtle Pecan Cluster Blizzard. That was one way in which I was able to encourage him. Being faced with the possibility of losing my father was emotionally draining, compounded by the struggle to balance my educational commitments. I had to put aside my normal, strict routine to be there for my father and my family.

This experience highlighted several things that everyone already knows, but we often take for granted. Firstly, it reminded me that every patient is someone’s loved one. As medical professionals, we can forget patients have just as much of a life as we do with goals, hopes, and dreams. Secondly, all of us as medical students and doctors have seen very sick patients in the hospital. We have also all experienced, to varying degrees, the pain of seeing loved ones endure suffering or pass away. Getting to see both simultaneously allowed me to empathize more deeply with patients and gain insight into the daily challenges faced by patients and their families.

GHHS, Narrative

Crying Over Mr. Ashton

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Bethany Snyder, MS3, Class of 2025

“What is going on with me?”

As part of our curriculum, all University of Kansas medical students have to stumble through simulated patient encounters. Most of them are one-offs (we treat a patient once, then never again), but one patient we see multiple times, a cis-male character named “Paul Ashton.” We first meet Paul for a generic complaint and order the appropriate labs. We see him a second time to inform him that a cancer screening marker has come back elevated. During a third visit we transition his care from hospital to home, and then in the last encounter we inform him that his cancer has returned.

Throughout these encounters, note that there are several different actors who portray Paul (we have over 200 medical students after all, one man could not do it alone), and I, myself, saw a different man play Paul each time. Despite this, during the fourth Paul encounter, I held back tears as I told him I would be there for him no matter what, whether he wanted to treat his recurrent cancer or not. I struggled to keep my voice even and my face neutral as we discussed his goals of care and his desire to stay with his grandchildren as long as possible. “What in the world?” I thought. This is a fake patient, not a real person. On top of that, it’s not like I have an attachment to a particular actor because it’s been a different man every time! For some reason, it just felt so personal and real.

Weeks later I was assigned to the inpatient oncology service on my internal medicine rotation. This was my third rotation thus far, so I wasn’t quite a novice, but I also hadn’t dealt with terminal illnesses in real patients yet. “Rick” was a patient admitted to our service for extensive blood clots in his legs. He had recently had an appointment with his outpatient oncologist, who reported that his most recent experimental chemotherapy had failed, and his metastatic disease would be terminal. This news was fresh and devastating for him and his wife. Nonetheless, I faced them with calm professionalism and frankness, not letting our conversations sink into unmitigated despair. I couldn’t understand why I was able to achieve such control with a real patient, but a simulated one had gotten under my skin.

As I mulled this situation over, I began to think about my mother, who happens to be an ER nurse with over 20 years of experience. She was a charge nurse during some of this time as well. To be quite honest, I had never understood how someone like her was able to perform that job. Reason being, it’s one that requires someone with strength and quick thinking during life-or-death scenarios, and my mom is someone who cries when she sees advertisements on TV for animal cruelty organizations. She is excitable, garrulous, sensitive, and passive. Instead, I always thought I had taken after my father: the stoic, analytical engineer. Growing up I felt closer to my father than my mother, who irritated me at times with what I felt was an overreactive personality.

But this same woman was somehow able to efficiently run an ER at the largest hospital in Kansas City. Could it be that during her work she slips into a composed persona which I have never seen at home? When surrounded by family, perhaps she doesn’t find it necessary to keep a cool demeanor; we are the ones she feels safest around. But at work, her patients and colleagues need her clear thinking and composure. I realized this is a side of my mother that I have never seen before, but it is something we might have in common. In the simulated Paul scenarios, the very fact that they weren’t real meant it was safe to let my emotions flow, so I struggled to contain them. With Rick’s genuine situation upon me, however, I had no trouble keeping them in check, because I knew this wasn’t the time to let go.

I felt guilty for underestimating my mother for so many years. It’s difficult to swallow the fact that there are sides of my mom that I have never seen. She doesn’t work in healthcare anymore, so I can’t visit her during work hours if I wanted to. Even so, now I have a greater understanding of who she is. Having my own bewildering experience with the emotional aspects of practicing medicine not only helped me learn more about myself, but it also brought me closer to my mother.

GHHS, Narrative, Poetry

Snowdrops

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Sheridan Scott, M2, Class of 2026

A child smiles softly, toy reflex hammer released
a plastic stethoscope still donned
as pudgy fingers fight to apply a Little Mermaid bandaid
over thick, black fur
where Mr. Snuggles’ heart would lie.

A girl counts silently, bag-valve-mask squeezed
a plastic stethoscope no longer sufficient
her hammering heart unwilling to still
as breathing for two people
leads her to wonder
how the woman became so ill.

Older now, naivety removed
like fallen autumn leaves
she knew the burden of illness
and the cruelty of disease,
reflected in patients’ eyes and
mirrored in those who held them dear.
The fragility, unpredictability of time
that causes a loved one’s screams
to overshadow outside noise and etch
a permanent mark in memory
as compressions neglect to replenish
ink into a pen–
unwritten chapters forever blank.

Yet, older now she knew that snowdrops bloomed
despite winter’s unforgiving chill
and knowledge mixed with compassion
achieves incredible feats
and gratitude in patients’ eyes
leaves her feeling unable to speak.
For medicine is most complex
and indescribable at best
to be entrusted with patient care
is an honor above all the rest.

GHHS, Narrative, Poetry

The Patience/The Patients

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Ruth Mekuria, M1, Class of 2027

“The Patience (read downward)

Patience.
A student holding a pen in an exam, a resident with a scalpel in hand, and now an attending holding their
patient’s hand waiting for the results with…
Hope, because this doctor was once…
A bit afraid, to be honest. But now I looked in her eyes and felt comfort and felt
It will be okay. She fought as hard as she could and I was
Looking at the clock, before looking into her eyes and whispering
“I will be here for you, no matter what happens.”
“Breathe, please breathe”…I prayed for each breath as she said
Doctor…Will I be okay?
Anxiously, hopefully, patiently wait with the
Patients.

The Patients (read upward)”

GHHS, Narrative

Patients are People

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Tyler Elmendorf, M3, Class of 2025

My first day as a third year medical student I anxiously waited in the neurology resident workroom as the team was assigning patients to students. The last two years of my life were in preparation for this moment; however, I was still overwhelmed with a feeling of inadequacy.

I soon found myself knocking on the door of a sweet 75 year old woman who was admitted for neurological deficits. Sitting tucked in her bed, she patiently answered my questions before we started looking at the cute pictures of her grandkids tapped to her walls. We shared a moment talking about her family, who was very dear to her but unable to visit her during her stay in the hospital.

Later that afternoon a team of two residents, an attending physician, and myself entered her room to update her on the results of her MRI scan. You could see the confusion on her face as the team explained her new diagnosis. She attempted to take notes on the discussion, but quickly gave up as she was unfamiliar with how to spell transverse myelitis. Seeing her disappointment, I turned to a new page in my notebook and wrote in big letters “TRANSVERSE MYELITIS.” When the team left the room I tore the page out and handed it to her. In that moment, her expression of confusion immediately subsided as she shot me a smile and a heartfelt thank you.

After rounds, I stopped by her room to check on her. She looked me in the eyes and explained how grateful she was for that simple gesture. She felt embraced by the people of the hospital, and that the individuals providing her care, truly cared.

I think about this moment often. While in many cases I can’t change the diagnosis, treatment, or outcome, this moment serves as a personal reminder of the kind of impact I can have when slowing down and thinking about the person in front of me not as a patient but as a person.