Category: GHHS

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.