Thursday, August 8, 2013

Funny How It Works Out

If you'd asked me to describe life when I'm 20 when I was six years old, I would never have painted a picture of where I am now.

If it had been up to me, the only things that would be the same would be that I would wear glasses and that I'd be pre-med. That's it. Honestly.

When I was seven, I switched schools. I ended up being severely bullied from the 3rd grade until I graduated 8th. I also developed "asthma", which wasn't diagnosed until I was ten. Three years of being told I was a couch potato.

When I was ten, I was diagnosed with basically untreatable asthma. While I might have seen asthma in my future, I never knew that there was such a thing as untreatable asthma.

When I was fourteen, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. Though it had been a fear of mine, I was blindsided.

I also developed a severe allergy to nuts when I was fourteen. I developed a bunch of other allergies then, too--which I probably could've seen coming, considering I always had lots of allergies. And I was diagnosed with Hashimoto's disease.

When I was sixteen, my mother died of cancer. Nope--never saw that one.

Also when I was sixteen, I started having symptoms of what we're currently terming fibromyalgia. I also was finally diagnosed with reactive hypoglycemia, which I'd had symptoms of for years.

When I was nineteen, my father was diagnosed with cancer.

I'm twenty now. I was finally diagnosed with "fibromyalgia" this year. I was finally put on meds for my persistent high blood sugars--even though my endocrinologist has still never said the word "diabetes" to me.

After expecting everything to somehow be wonderfulawesomeamazing, all I have to show for myself is a TON of health issues and a very, very strong family history of cancer.

I promise--there's a point here.

This summer, I was exposed to a lot. I think the first practical thing I learned was that patients aren't seen as people sometimes.

People hate it when doctors look at them like a specimen rather than a person. Having been on both sides now, I understand it better.

Today I was shadowing a cardiologist. All of the patients were men--except for one.

The men just stripped their shirts off, no problems, no questions asked. The woman got a hospital gown in shirt form.

When the doctor went to listen to her lungs, he couldn't lift up the shirt--he had to have her unsnap it. So he's standing behind her, I'm standing more in front of her, and her chest is basically completely exposed. No matter how hard I try, my peripheral vision still catches some of what she's trying to hide.

I'm part of the same species as her. I'm even a member of the part of the species that shares equipment with her. Modesty is important--I really, really understand that. But I wasn't seeing a woman's breasts out of the corner of my eye--it was like that part of her didn't exist for the moment.

This has happened periodically throughout this summer. I see parts of patients that I know they don't want me to see, but it's like that isn't what I'm really seeing. I unconsciously take a step back when I see something like that, and I'm able to separate in a way I didn't think was possible.

Here's where the first bit comes in.

Had I lived the easy, carefree life I'd always expected to live, I might be able to sink into my ability to separate. Some doctors have a way of seeing people in a very...clinical...way. I have that ability, but I can't sink into it. Because when I'm face to face with a patient, they're more a person than a patient to me. That doesn't mean that I get all emotional, but it does mean that I can be distant when I have to be and can still be a human being when I should be.

When confronted with the terrified parents of a four year old newly diagnosed with Hashimoto's disease, I'm not above telling them that I have it, too, and being a living example of the normal life he can live despite it. By the same token, I was able to hold down a five year old boy slipping under anesthesia who kept thrashing around. I remember the feeling of slipping away, not being myself as I held gently but firmly onto his leg.

I don't think I would have been able to retain the human aspect if I hadn't been confronted with what it means to be HUMAN--fallible, weak, powerless on so many levels--if I hadn't been confronted with it myself so many times. Having been the difficult patient, I know the frustration. My patients will appreciate the pain I went through someday, because I've been through more in twenty years than most people go through in a lifetime.

"This is how it feels when you take your life back/ This is how it feels when you finally fight back/ When life pushes me I push harder/ What doesn't kill me makes me stronger" ~Skillet

1 comment:

  1. I sometimes think of what my life might be like if I'd had it "easier." Then I think of how much my past experiences have helped to shape me, especially in my ability to relate to others in similar circumstances (which has helped a lot in my career so far), and I'm not sure I would pick any other life.

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