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Are you there?

A longtime reader (and by longtime reader, I mean my mother) of this blog recently commented to me that I haven’t been writing here very much as of late.

As a blogger, I suppose it is good to know that your absence is missed — even if that absence is noted by your mother.

My last post was published prior to this academic year ending. I was wrapping up my year as a Chief Resident. It truly was a good year. I felt that I learned a lot and developed not only as a clinician but an educator and (dare I say it) administrator too.

Am I still here? Do I still exist? Well the answer is yes, obviously. I have been left in the post residency… afterglow? Is it even appropriate to call it that?

Though I did round as the attending physician during my chief residency, those stints were scattered here and there. Now, however, that is life. I’m no longer involved in the inner workings of residency administration. And that’s ok. It’s time to move on. The new chiefs have taken over that baton beautifully.

But it does sort of force you to redefine your life. Because for so long life has been about training and learning and education and answering to a program director.

Sure, I still have a boss and a department chair. But there is a much more autonomous feel to it now.

I’ve taken up some leadership positions. I’m trying to get involved with our institution in ways I feel I can contribute positively. I’m working with residents and medical students. Overall, though, I feel that the path is now less defined and it’s up to myself to figue out where I’m going to point this ship.

That’s an exciting, scary, and daunting idea.

But this journey goes on.

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About 3 Months Left

There’s about 3 months to go in this academic year.

That means I will be a Chief Resident for only another 3 months. My contract is coming to an end. The incoming Chief Residents have already been chosen and announced.

It some ways I feel like I know what a lame duck president must feel like.

The year has gone by faster than I could have anticipated. It’s been a period of satisfaction, personal & professional growth, and frustration. There have been ups and downs. Joys and disappointments.

My fellow residents who graduated from residency last year — well those who went on to work “real” jobs — have pulled in so much more money than I have this year. I’m sure they are enjoying the dough. Sure it is not has high as those surgical specialties. But it sure is a lot more than what I’ve been paid this year.

Still, I don’t regret it. Knowing what I do now, I would do it again.

There is a fraternity of sorts with former chief residents. And I’m proud to have joined those ranks.

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Attending Status

What’s in a title?

My ID badge now says “Attending Physician.”

I guess that’s my title now.

Last month I worked two hospitalist shifts. A week later I followed it up with 7 MOD shifts.

As a hospitalist I was responsible for my entire set of patients. I did get to work with one resident who was spending the month doing a hospitalist elective.

During the MOD shifts, I was the attending on one of our Internal Medicine teaching teams. I had a senior resident and two interns.

It is definitely a new feeling to have “the last say.” All my previous experiences on inpatient medicine had been as a resident. There were always things that I deferred to the attending. Like discharges home, for example.

As the attending, I had the final say. And it was a very different experience.

Serving as the attending on the teaching service was interesting as well. I remember frequently paging my senior residents to check in and make sure they did certain things. And as I did that, a light in my head turned on. I realized why I used to get several pages from attendings as they wanted to make sure I followed through on certain things.

When you have other people taking care of patients under your license and supervision, you start to pay attention.

Part of my job as a Chief Resident is doing a cetain number of MOD shifts. Seven shifts down. Looking forward this upcoming year. I have a lot to learn about medicine still. I have a lot to learn about teaching residents and students. I also have a lot of fun in store.

Stick around, dear reader. This should be a fun year.

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County Life

This month is my first of two months rotating at one of the local county medical centers. It is very different than either of the other two hospitals in which we find ourselves.

Traditionally it has been called our “senior capstone” experience — acting as the senior resident at the county.

The patient population is diverse. Sick patients walking daily with strange diagnoses.

At night, we find ourselves mostly on our own covering the ICU patients.

During intern year, my first rotation was here at County.

It is very strange to find myself back, now in the senior resident position.

They say time flies. I am counting on it.

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MICU to Heme/Onc — What a Change

After a month of intensity on the MICU, I have switched to the Hematology and Oncology service.

I won’t lie. The first few days after Switch Day I realized that I missed the intensity and the severity we had on an hourly basis with critically ill patients. It was like coming off of an adrenaline rush.

There are few Heme/Onc emergencies that require a response from the team immediately. I have explained to teams requesting a consult that their request was placed quite late in the day after we have completed rounds, and since it is not an urgent matter, we will see the patient in the morning.

I have been consulted on masses found incidentally or not-so-incidentally on imaging. Masses that are highly suspicious for malignancy. After seeing the patients, I write my recommendations: Please obtain a tissue biopsy. If stable for discharge, patient can follow up in Heme/Onc clinic as an outpatient. (Of course, there are frequently other specific tests I might ask for.)

Sayonara. See you later. Thanks for your question.

I don’t mean to sound or appear callous about patient’s with cancer. I appreciate the gravity of the subject matter. I know it often sounds like a death sentence when the diagnosis falls upon a patient’s ears for the first time. And the second. And sometimes, even the third. I know how it affects the family of the patient. I know they are scrambling for news, grasping for hope. I know how it feels because I was one of those family members when my mom was diagnosed with cancer while I was in college. So don’t misunderstand me. I don’t downplay the significance or the weight of what I deal with now that I am on the Hematology and Oncology service.

I just mean that the energy required of me is a lot less.

The intensity of the critical care unit takes it’s toll emotionally, psychologcially and physically.

I sleep a bit more now. I have time to read more now. And yesterday, I even had time to go discuss a research project with an attending.

It’s a good thing that residency affords these highs and lows. I don’t think I would survive 100% of either level.

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Again, MICU

This year I was one of the “lucky” residents who were assigned two MICU months and two CCU months.

I am finishing my 2nd year of residency in the MICU. It has been a long and exhausting month. My last call was probably my most emotionally draining one.

The call day had ended and I soon found the MICU empty of other residents. I was the senior left on duty. Around 10 pm, one of the nurses came up to me and told me that an arterial line was no longer functioning properly. The line was needed as the patient was on a couple medications to support her low blood pressure and the arterial line provided an accurate measure of her blood pressure. This patient also needed frequent blood draws to check her pH, CO2, O2, and HCO3 levels in her blood.

I asked the nurse to get things ready and I would attempt to try and place another line. After notifying the attending, I started scouring the MICU for our ultrasound machine. Knowing that the patient was on pressors (medication to maintain blood pressure), I figured her artery might be small and I would use any help I could get.

To make a long story short, I made 3 attempts with the help of the ultrasound. First attempt I got a red flash of blood in my catheter that indicated I had hit the vessel. However I could not successfully advance the guide wire. As I re-checked the location of the vessel on the ultrasound, I realized that her vessels were clamping down even tighter. I had to try further up her arm for attempts #2 and #3.

After three attempts I threw in the towel. I paged my attending and asked for help. He came back and suggested we try a femoral arterial line instead of one in her wrist. Having never placed one I was eager to at least try. In the end, though, the attending ended up placing one.

Minutes later, the patient would code. She went pulseless and chest compressions were immediately started. We brought her back. But she would do it again later that night. The second code was not successful. And in the early morning hours I phoned sleepy relatives to deliver the fatal news.

The following morning as rounds began, one of my interns notified me that Mrs. X had approached him. She wanted to withdraw life support on her husband. She would later do so and request that the intern and attending be present as they disconnected him from the medications and ventilator that kept his body alive for the past week.

I watched as she wailed and cried over her husband’s body. And slowly and quietly we walked away; because we had to move on to other sick patients.

We moved on to a room where a young body lay motionless. A mother was hysterical saying that it was “too soon.” There wasn’t a dry pair of eyes in that room as our team walked in. And I watched as my attending deliver blow after verbal blow. The patient was past any intervention. There was no surgery or medication left to try. Expected reflexes were absent. There were no signs of spontaneous breathing; the patient was fully dependent on the ventilator. Our medical advice to the family? Withdraw life support. Despite initial vehement protestation by a grieving mother, the family finally made the decision to withdraw life support late that day.

One of the family members looked right at us and said, “I don’t know how you can do this every day.”

Sometimes, I wonder that too.