best to find out. No matter the tongue-lashing you might take from a Socratic superior, donât be tempted to hide your ignoranceâit is an addiction far too rampant in medicine of all ilks today.â
In closing, he offered this thought: âKeep a simple value system. Work out what things in life you care about, the beliefs you hold near and dear, and stick to them. You are about to go through a most tumultuous time. What are you willing to accept? What are you willing to fight for?â I wrote it down in my Palm Pilot:
Figure out a value system.
Arriving in New York a month later, I still didnât have a system down, but I did have some vague ideas about the kind of doctor I hoped to become.
CHAPTER FOUR
bogus doctor
Buy a long stethoscope.
âADVICE FROM A MEDICAL SCHOOL PROFESSOR
Â
I spent the first morning of internship running errands. I picked up a pager from the telecommunications office and a stack of light brown scrubs and short white coats from the hospital laundry. Unlike other teaching hospitals in Manhattan, at New York Hospital only attending physicians and clinical fellows were allowed to wear long coats. This had provoked some grousing during orientation, as my classmates seemed eager to show off their new status as physicians, but it didnât bother me. I didnât feel like much of a doctor yet.
Back in my apartment, I tried one on. In medical school I had always felt proud of my short white coat, walking home through the Central West End with my stethoscope jutting out of the waist pocket. Now, as I put on a white coat for the first time as a doctor, a sense of pride washed over me once again. Despite any misgivings I had about medicine, the uniform conferred authority, cachet, membership in an exclusive guild. I stuffed the pockets with useful paraphernalia: a
Pocket Pharmacopeia
, a
Sanford Guide to Antimicrobial Therapy
, a
Facts and Formulas
, a
Washington Manual of Medical Therapeutics
, a small notebook, my Palm Pilot, a few pens, a stethoscope, a reflex hammer, a tuning fork, a penlight, a small ruler, a pair of EKG calipers, and a handful of alcohol swabs. I could have added more, but my shoulders were starting to sag.
I checked myself out in the mirror. I still looked like a medical student, not a resident, much less a doctor. I poked a Washington University School of Medicine pin through a lapel. I clipped my photo ID onto the chest pocket. Someone had once told me that when you become an intern, nurses treat you better because now you can write orders. But I certainly didnât feel any different.
Earlier that morning, at 9:00 a.m. in the wood-paneled clinic conference room, Dr. John Bele, a short man with a penchant for pink shirts, yellow ties, and loafers, had distributed orientation packets and quickly gone over the broad outlines of the rotation. As Dr. Wood had promised, there was to be no call. Unlike our colleagues in the main hospital building across the street, we were going to have weekends off because the clinic was closed. Most days weâd be finished by five or six oâclock, he said, except Tuesdays, when there was evening practice. Teaching conferences were held every day at noon in the main hospital. Lunch was usually provided. Grand Rounds were on Thursday mornings; attendance was mandatory.
He had passed out an exam testing our knowledge of primary care. When we were done with it, we could leave; none of us had patients scheduled that first morning. The test questions were straightforward, having more to do with ethics and doctor-patient relations than management of specific clinical conditions. Even as I was taking the test, I wondered how I was doing in comparison to the others. Some habits from medical school die hard.
After lunch, I walked back to the clinic. The air was thick and still. On the sidewalk, blooming tulips rose out of the gated tree plots like hands coming out of a grave. I took off my coat and swung it over my
In closing, he offered this thought: âKeep a simple value system. Work out what things in life you care about, the beliefs you hold near and dear, and stick to them. You are about to go through a most tumultuous time. What are you willing to accept? What are you willing to fight for?â I wrote it down in my Palm Pilot:
Figure out a value system.
Arriving in New York a month later, I still didnât have a system down, but I did have some vague ideas about the kind of doctor I hoped to become.
CHAPTER FOUR
bogus doctor
Buy a long stethoscope.
âADVICE FROM A MEDICAL SCHOOL PROFESSOR
Â
I spent the first morning of internship running errands. I picked up a pager from the telecommunications office and a stack of light brown scrubs and short white coats from the hospital laundry. Unlike other teaching hospitals in Manhattan, at New York Hospital only attending physicians and clinical fellows were allowed to wear long coats. This had provoked some grousing during orientation, as my classmates seemed eager to show off their new status as physicians, but it didnât bother me. I didnât feel like much of a doctor yet.
Back in my apartment, I tried one on. In medical school I had always felt proud of my short white coat, walking home through the Central West End with my stethoscope jutting out of the waist pocket. Now, as I put on a white coat for the first time as a doctor, a sense of pride washed over me once again. Despite any misgivings I had about medicine, the uniform conferred authority, cachet, membership in an exclusive guild. I stuffed the pockets with useful paraphernalia: a
Pocket Pharmacopeia
, a
Sanford Guide to Antimicrobial Therapy
, a
Facts and Formulas
, a
Washington Manual of Medical Therapeutics
, a small notebook, my Palm Pilot, a few pens, a stethoscope, a reflex hammer, a tuning fork, a penlight, a small ruler, a pair of EKG calipers, and a handful of alcohol swabs. I could have added more, but my shoulders were starting to sag.
I checked myself out in the mirror. I still looked like a medical student, not a resident, much less a doctor. I poked a Washington University School of Medicine pin through a lapel. I clipped my photo ID onto the chest pocket. Someone had once told me that when you become an intern, nurses treat you better because now you can write orders. But I certainly didnât feel any different.
Earlier that morning, at 9:00 a.m. in the wood-paneled clinic conference room, Dr. John Bele, a short man with a penchant for pink shirts, yellow ties, and loafers, had distributed orientation packets and quickly gone over the broad outlines of the rotation. As Dr. Wood had promised, there was to be no call. Unlike our colleagues in the main hospital building across the street, we were going to have weekends off because the clinic was closed. Most days weâd be finished by five or six oâclock, he said, except Tuesdays, when there was evening practice. Teaching conferences were held every day at noon in the main hospital. Lunch was usually provided. Grand Rounds were on Thursday mornings; attendance was mandatory.
He had passed out an exam testing our knowledge of primary care. When we were done with it, we could leave; none of us had patients scheduled that first morning. The test questions were straightforward, having more to do with ethics and doctor-patient relations than management of specific clinical conditions. Even as I was taking the test, I wondered how I was doing in comparison to the others. Some habits from medical school die hard.
After lunch, I walked back to the clinic. The air was thick and still. On the sidewalk, blooming tulips rose out of the gated tree plots like hands coming out of a grave. I took off my coat and swung it over my
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