- High level care does not mean bed bound and demented beyond humanity. Often it can mean doubly incontinent but completely with it and social and happy. If you receive a patient “from HLCNH” this is not license to immediately turf them back because you’ve made the above assumption. You must ask why they are in this level of care before you decide.
- If you can’t quite tell if someone is delirious, before you do that B12/folate/TSH arrangement, try download and print out a CAM or a 4AT. Both are four short questions which will help you.
- Nursing homes aren’t called nursing homes anymore. They’re called “Aged Care Facilities”. Why? because it’s misleading to call a facility a nursing home when there’s no nurses. There’s ‘carers’. And maybe one RN to give out the medications. Nursing homes are not like mini hospitals. There is no inprest. There is no bladder scanner. Sending people back there with drains and medications that need dual signatures will score them a trip back to hospital.
- You don’t have to get the not-for-CPR form signed on the first phone call but it’s good to ask anyway because advanced care planning is a process and family members need time to think it through and have lots of discussions. Initiate the discussion.
- Elderly patients can have acute abdomens too. They might not be able to tell you where the pain is but it is up to you to think of it and if you suspect it and can’t rule it out with the history, rule it out with the CT scanner. Non-con will still show a mass.
- Pneumonia and antibiotics WILL send the INR sky high.
- Listen to the family. Listen to the family. Listen to the family.
- If a nursing home can’t give the palliative medications overnight, and you don’t want to get the on-call pharmacist in to dispense them, don’t discharge them. Not only is it obviously cruel, but it’s also illegal to deny a patient palliative care and it could be career-ending for you.
- An inappropriate investigation in this cohort is one that will cause harm. Most of them don’t. And while it may not change your management, the family sure do like to know what has caused their dearly loved mother to start to die. It’s called closure. Obviously don’t do a PET scan but it’s okay to investigate even when it seems futile. Never use the word futile out loud.
- Listen to the family. Even if they seem unreasonable and ‘demanding’. There is no greater power than love. It drives people to madness. Listen to them, try to accommodate them, take a deep breath and be patient. And when they say “something is wrong”, find that something because 99% of the time they’re right.
I’m doing an outreach rotation at the moment. It involves venturing into the community, leaving the bubble of the hospital, and assessing people to see if they need to go to hospital. The idea is that if we can treat them in the community, we can prevent a hospital admission. Hospital admissions are expensive, and for the group of patients I now work for, usually detrimental too.
Except that when you’re in a hospital you have everything. You have a lab at your disposal, imaging, on-the-spot specialist opinions if urgently required, you’re surrounded by experts. Out in the community it’s me. Me and my stethoscope and doctors bag that has antibiotics, diuretics, and a script pad. If I’m lucky a nurse will come out with me – the nurses I work with are for more experienced than I, they’ve been doing this gig for decades and before that, working in intensive care or emergency.
When I see my patients, I have to ask myself, what is the best for them? Is it a hospital admission? Is it prevention of a hospital admission? Is that safe? If I don’t send them to hospital, will they survive their ailment? If I do send them to hospital, was it the wrong call? Have I created illness for them, have I wasted thousands of dollars?
Last week I saw an elderly woman* who was delirious. She’d had some blood tests a couple of weeks back which were helpful for me, but had been well in between. Delirium is a hard one because my patient can’t tell me what’s wrong. My patient didn’t have any pain (that much you can more-or-less elicit) and she had a catheter for her urine, the contents of which at a glance, was clear. I gave her some juice and she vomited it immediately. I examined her in a limted way – she couldn’t follow a single command and I couldn’t find any signs of infection or much else for that matter. No medication change. For all I knew it could be a non-medical reason, sometimes simply a change in staff, a change in bedroom, can cause a delirium in our older patients. She was dehydrated. The nurse offered to hang some fluids and I agreed and asked her to collect some bloods and sat down to write my notes. I wasn’t keen to send her to hospital, surely I could figure this out, institute treatment, and keep her out of hospital. But something was bugging me. It was her colour. People can take on a different tinge depending on what is wrong with them. There is the yellow of jaundice, the flushed of infection, the mottled of sepsis, the pale of anaemia. The greyish-yellow of uraemia (from kidney failure).
A million years ago I did a term as a renal (kidney) registrar. It was easily the hardest term of my life, the level of responsibility given to me, given my junior level. I wont go into details here. But while it broke me, it made me, it taught me about guts. My consultant at the time was a kind genius. He would walk through the emergency department, and collect patients. They would be admitted under other services but because he’d worked there for twenty years, he knew the whole community and wanted to look after them. The other registrars would joke about never letting him go to the emergency department or you’d have the biggest round list in the world!
My genius boss, who knew everything and who loved people, used his gut a lot. When faced with a problem he didn’t know the answer to, he would stand there for what seemed like an age, hand on his chin, and then eventually say “I think we should try this…” He never got it wrong. It was wonderful to watch the 40 odd years of experience he had at work. He never really articulated why he chose that and I’m not sure he could, it was just the weight of that experience influencing his gut. I’ve always found this hard. Especially in the exams. There’s so much noise in your mind as you go through. If you choose this, what about that? What would others choose? If you get it wrong does it prove you are as stupid as you suspect you are? If you fail, what does it mean? Does it mean you’re a terrible doctor, does it mean everyone will look down on you? Isn’t that the right answer as well? The answer is lost somewhere in all of that.
When the patient is in front of you, it’s even harder. It’s none one of 5 options anymore, it’s 50. My patient could have had a stroke. She was delirious, she couldn’t swallow properly. If I didn’t send her to hospital, was I missing a stroke? I didn’t think it was a stroke, but it could be. How would I know? I sat there staring at my notes for a really long time. I had no blood tests. I had my examination findings, my history. I had that strange colour.
The nurse returned. I took a deep breath.
“I’m sending her to hospital.”
The nurse blinked in surprise, a little bemused.
“I think she’s uraemic” I blurt out, “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but if we send the bloods and wait for the results, and I’m right, she’s not getting into the hospital until 9pm and no one senior is going to see her for a while.”
“Your choice doc”. It may seem a benign statement, but my wonderful, experienced nurse who knows far more than me, isn’t arguing. And if they’re not arguing, you’re probably right. But still, if I’m wrong, then I’ve put a lady through a lot of unnecessary and painful intervention, and cost thousands of dollars to a very stretched system. There are so many points at which I could second guess myself. So many wrong calls. This could be a completely wrong call. It would be so easy to talk myself out of it, go with inertia.
We organise an ambulance. I ring the emergency department consultant. They are never pleased to hear from me but we keep it polite because we both get it. The nurse and I run the bloods back to the hospital ahead of the ambulance to expedite the patient through the department. I call the patient’s next of kin and explain, they are accepting. And then I move onto another patient and try to put it out of my mind.
Later in the day when I’ve returned to the office, the nurse claps a hand of my shoulder.
“Nice call doc – good to see you trusted your gut”. She thrusts a printout of the blood test and brain CT in my hand and there it is. Severe kidney failure, no (obvious) stroke, right call made, correct treatment and admission commenced on arrival.
When I was more junior, the glory would have been in making the right diagnosis. There is no glory in this for me now, because it’s a horrible situation for the patient. I’m glad that things were done correctly, but the glory is in the trust I afforded my own judgment. It’s easy to make decisions when you have a lot of information available. Out here, in the far reaches of the medical galaxy, it’s so different, you have so little at your disposal. So my post tonight is a little bit of a pat on the back for me because you don’t often feel successful in this gig so that when you do, you’ve got to take a moment to enjoy it.
But as always, I have a point to make. Exam sitters, when you take that exam on Monday, trust your gut. When you have that moment when you think “I think it’s this but I’m not sure why”, no matter how faint that moment is, and no matter how much your mind tries to convince you it could be the other 4 options for so many other reasons (especially if you have an arts degree), hold that moment. Trust your gut. I get that you’re junior, that that muscle is as yet underdeveloped but it’s in there. Your answer is in there. The exams are the beginning of you finding your voice as a physician. Don’t worry about failing. This is the safest place to fail. You wont harm anyone. You wont have to tell anyone their loved one is dying. You wont have to say to a patient “I made a mistake…”. Your pride might get wounded if you do, but I don’t need to tell you that is nothing in the face of a medical error.
When you have that moment when your mind freezes, when you panic, when something screams at you “I don’t know!”, you know what? It’s okay that you don’t know. Half the time you really don’t. Answer C, put a star next to it, move on and calm back to it later. Or take a time out – stop, close your eyes, take 5 really deep breaths in and out, open your eyes, and keep moving, come back to it later. The answer might come to you in a little while and if it does, wonderful, if it doesn’t, keep your answer at C.
You can’t harm anyone taking this test. Your family is safe and unharmed, the people you love are okay. You are okay. This is all that matters. This test is not who you are. It’s a hurdle, sometimes you clear them, sometimes you crash into them and if you crash, you set it back up and you try again. And the best part is that this is not a patient. Even if you’re wrong, you’re not wrong, because you can’t hurt anyone doing this test. On Monday, start trusting your gut. It’s an ill-defined thing and it’s scary but ultimately, it’s worth it.
Good luck to all the candidates sitting the FRACP Part 1 Written Exam on Monday!
*patient information heavily de-identified and changed for this piece.
I told a man he was dying today. He wasn’t old. His life had been written for him by his parents and his circumstances, and as we sat there, in his room, in a nursing home, even though he was too young and too cognitively intact for a nursing home, I watched the sun filtering in the window and I wondered why.
How did I come to be sitting here, and him there? How had I been born to two parents who in spite of their mistakes, didn’t put me in danger, kept me safe, and warm and fed? How had he been born into the opposite? What had happened to his parents?
When I told him, he nodded, announced he was tired, then told me I should have worn more makeup to deliver news like that. It was no surprise to him. We both had a chuckle. His writing had been on the wall for a while, and today, more than he was out of time, he was out of fight. “No hospital” he told me, when I offered a last-ditch attempt to turn things around, “no more”. I helped him into bed, he intermittently shouted at me, followed by intermittent sheepish silence. We talked about palliative care, he signed the form with his wishes, not for transfer to hospital, call his social worker when he died, he wanted a funeral in a big church.
I wanted to hear everything. I wanted to hear all his stories. Why his bedroom was decorated the way it was. Who he’d been. There was no time. Earlier in the week when I’d met him, he didn’t know me, he shouted at me for the entire visit. I tried everything I could to try and turn the ship around, but decades of hard living, multiple diseases all conspiring against us, won against my feeble attempts. When I discussed him with my consultant, she gently suggested it was his time. There’s always a part of me that wants to fight and she saw this, she let me try. When I saw him again today it was on his face and in my heart.
I’ve never told a person they were dying before. On a normal ward job, by the time they get to you, they’re unable to talk or they’re already gone and you’re having that discussion with devastated family. Today was a long and private discussion, met by my patient with quiet acceptance, with courage, and with peace, in spite of his young age. There was a both a stillness and a rawness in our words, he was not the sort you could mince words and I’m not the kind to try.
At the time I was focused on making sure he would be comfortable and not be taken into a hospital system that at his stage, would do more harm than good. We planned a goodbye party. The chaplain brought him fruit. Afterwards the nurse and I got in the car and drove to our next appointment. And it wasn’t for a long time later that the seriousness, the specialness, and the immense privilege of that discussion hit me.
I feel both sad for my patient and happy to know him if only briefly, immensely humbled to be a part of his final journey, overawed at his bravery and courage in facing it the way he does. This is why I did medicine.
Something happens to you in medical school. You forget about why you did it in the first place, you forget you wanted to help people. You get stunned by bright lights, start trying for the impressive specialties, ditch the touchy-feely stuff in case people don’t think you’re serious about the scientific side of medicine. You use all the jargon, no lay terms, you pride yourself on it, you assume that those who prioritise caring over the science of it must be covering for their lack of knowledge. And then if you come to your senses and return to those values, you wake up inside that dream. When I was done chasing the bright lights and found Geriatric Medicine, I told one of my bosses from a different specialty what I had chosen. He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘What a waste’ he retorted. I looked him squarely in the eye and loudly disagreed. I wanted my resident to hear how wrong he was.
When I left my patient today, I said I’d see him again next week. “If I’m still alive!” he shouted with the sort of cheer that is half joking and half sad. He is why I did medicine. I am humbled and rewarded to be his doctor, even for just a few days of his life.
At the end of the day, our team went through our list of patients. Someone announced he was now discharged from our service, he’d been referred onto our palliative care colleagues.
“He’s not discharged yet” I said out of nowhere. It’s my first week in this job by the way. “I can’t. Not yet. I need to see him one more time next week, I need to make sure he’s comfortable”.
There is silence.
“So do I” says one of my nursing colleagues.
“Me too” says another.
We keep him on our list so we can see him just once more, and try to help just one last time.
I read an article recently about a survey into bullying of doctors specialising in intensive care (ICU). One third of those surveyed revealed bullying, probably the tip of the iceberg That, however, is not what disturbed me the most. What disturbed me the most was that when these results were presented to the college, some smug upstart stood up and said the results weren’t valid because they weren’t statistically significant. Statistical significance means that if positive, it would be representative of an entire population relevant to what was being studied. Except that when you’re measuring qualitative things, such as, people, not drug responses, statistical significance kind of doesn’t really matter – if even one person has been bullied, it’s not okay. The fact that this didn’t even register with that person, is symptomatic of the strange cult medicine has become.
When you’re a medical student, you’re so excited. You did medicine because you wanted to help people, because you wanted to be proud of what you do. You can’t understand why people in the field seem a bit grumpy. Sometimes your consultant teachers are really mean, sometimes they make you cry or feel stupid, sometimes they make your colleagues all laugh at you because they’re frightened too. And it’s normal. It’s all normal. It’s hundreds of years of history and nobility normal. But it’s okay because medical school is still kind of a cocoon where you have your friends and you go to the pub and you have a few and laugh at the mean consultant and feel better about it. By final year, shit is getting real but it’s still mostly okay. Some people are wigging out because they want to be neurosurgeons since forever and they’re worrying about their careers but most of us have held onto that idealism.
When you’re an intern it’s really really really hard. You’re thrown into these giant hospitals with hundreds of people, and lists of jobs longer than the time given to do them. When you complain that you don’t get to go home on time, you’re told to be more efficient. When you ask for benchmarks or KPI’s so you can try to understand what is expected of you, there is nothing but silence. You’re too afraid to complain that the working conditions are outside of your award, because you want a career. If you’ve even read the award, because it’s never supplied to you when you get hired. ‘Good’ interns power through all their jobs with a smile on their face and never complain. ‘Bad’ interns complain, struggle to do all the jobs because they spend too long trying to care about their patients, suffer extreme anxiety to the point of paralysis and ultimately leave the hospital for greener pastures because they didn’t feel ‘good enough’. Never mind they got the scores to get into medical school or got through medical school. Bearing in mind these two examples are extremes, everyone falls between the two.
The ‘good’ registrar (the person who is on a training programme to become some kind of specialist) is direct, and ascerbic, and doesn’t take shit from anyone. They frequently bark at interns who ring them to ask for advice, seem to know everything, see their patients with lightning efficiency and not too much caring (because that will get in the way of getting through their work), and their bosses think they are great because they handle the inpatients for them (bosses do clinics and have private patients too), the residents trying to get onto the specialty programme try to emulate them, and the interns are left in tears by them, but ultimately, if they stay, become them.
The consultants are a mixed breed but encourage the direct-speaking, highly knowledgeable and acerbic trainee who doesn’t display too much caring because they make their job easier. Some consultants like to make sexist ‘jokes’ in front of their trainees (usually female) but always ‘just joking’, some don’t let gender get in the way and employ the time-honoured ritual of humiliation, generally at the bedside in front of the patient, some just outright tell you that you’re useless, and some will try and tell you that you’re terrible as a means of getting you to step up. Ultimately every junior person at some point feels like they’re not up to the job over minor things (like forgetting to order a non-urgent test) or that they are personally responsible for the safety of their patients and no one else (not true, medicine is a system with multiple safety layers).
And when the most ‘successful’ role models, are the way they are, you become that way too. I painfully remember at the end of residency, having a busy and stressful shift, and snapped about one of the patients. I had reached the end of my rope, the end of constantly trying to perform, to clear my jobs, to be that good resident. I can’t remember what I said, but it was something particularly insensitive and uncaring about a sick patient (fortunately to a nurse and not to their face). The nurse in charge stopped in her tracks and said “hey, that’s not like you. You used to be lovely and now you’ve changed”. I was mortified. I’d been so process driven, so goal oriented, so focussed on being like the registrars that I’d forgotten there were sick people around.
It had seeped into my personal life. When your patients walk the line between life and death, when your actions can dictate the difference between that, your heart becomes hard. Your tolerance for the banalities of everyday life drops and you become hard as a rock. You see so much terrible shit on a day-to-day basis that it’s your normal. You don’t even know it’s terrible anymore. When you step out into the normal world again, you think people are too soft. You pride yourself on saying things like ‘harden up’ and see it as a point of pride that nothing gets to you, you find schadenfreude in the soft hearted around you suffering because you’re not and there’s clearly something wrong with them and something right with you.
Except you are very wrong. That heart of stone is made of layers upon layers of vicarious trauma, from the huge amounts of patients with horrible illnesses and stories you’re forced to churn through without ever even getting to say “I’m so sorry” to them, to the hardened hearts of all of your mentors saying things like “toughen up, it’s good for you”, or “you lot are soft, we saw twice as many patients in my day”. It’s made of completely normalised bullying, of colleagues who lack the integrity to stick with you because their career is more important, because once you get there, once you’ve made it, you can go back to being you again. But you can’t. Once there, you have to keep yourself there. And to keep yourself there, you have to be as hard as a stone.
Later when I was a more junior registrar, one of my patients pulled me aside and told me he couldn’t believe how badly we were bullied. I asked him what on earth he was talking about, that my consultant was lovely. The gentleman was agog with disbelief, pointed out how badly each one of us had been humiliated when he was teaching us by the bedside. I laughed it off at the time and said ‘oh that’s just the way he teaches, we’re used to it’. I hadn’t even felt humiliated by then. Once upon a time I would have been in tears.
While I was in medical school I would sometimes go to drinks with my husbands corporate friends. One of those friend’s Dad was a doctor, and I was musing aloud what I would become when I ‘grew up’, tossing around different ideas for specialities. That guy at the time told me not to let what I chose harden me, because that was his Dad’s biggest regret. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time. I know now. Doctors are unaware that they are bullied by their colleagues, and traumatised by the double whammy of seeing horrible things happen to people, and not having the time to properly care for them. In other health areas, like psychology and social work, there are weekly or fortnightly supervision sessions where the trainee can debrief and reflect and work out how they can be better. This concept is met with suspicion in the medical profession, everyone is always so afraid for their career, they don’t want to be seen as soft, they don’t want to admit mistakes.
I’ve had a few opportunities for ‘greatness’ over the years. Offers to train in lucrative specialties, take on prestigious research and I was so tempted. But I could see the writing on the wall by the end of residency. I was becoming what I never wanted to be, that doctor that didn’t care. You are presented with a clear choice at some stage in medicine, and that’s to go with or against your values. Maybe it’s not so clear for everyone. So I took the less prestigious road, I prioritised time and my family over it. It stings sometimes, a comment here, some dismissiveness there, but I don’t care anymore. As a medical student, older male doctors used to tell me to do general practice because it was ‘good for women’ (i.e. it’s not as time-intensive as surgery and critical care) but really, they all should be.
Only certain specialties are like this. Some are lovely. All have elements while some are overt, and there is no secret which, it’s been in the media enough. It’s going to take decades to change and that’s being generous. There is too much bedrock in there, too much fossilised, entrenched attitude, too many hearts of stone running closed systems, believing any opinion that there is something wrong with what’s happening is simply political-correctness gone mad. They will joke about it to their registrars, say things like “you don’t think like that do you? You’re one of the good ones!”, and “oooh am I bullying you right now?” and the registrars and residents and interns will laugh because they have no other choice, they will internalise these messages as correct. And they need these consultants because without their expertise, people will die that they could help save. It’s a very complex, powerful, codependent relationship, further reinforced by the medical workforce units, responsible for rostering and employment, who behave as though 80-100 weeks are normal and that doctors are lazy or ungrateful if they suggest otherwise. Of course, on paper, no one does 80-100 weeks.
This post doesn’t really even begin to pick apart what is happening, and what has been happening under the public’s noses for a very long time. It’s a tragedy. Everyone wants the caring doctor, but they rarely survive through residency these days. It’s cooler to be a tough and hard-nosed sort that isn’t fazed by anything. Everyone is much more comfortable with that, except of course, our patients. And our families. And our friends. All the people who really matter.
So to all my colleagues reading this, trust your instincts. If it doesn’t feel right then it’s not. If you don’t feel like you, if you’re crying in the cupboard or telling a family member you think their problem is nothing, just know that you’re still in there and you’re not the one with the problem. The system has the problem and it’s inflicting it on you. What you choose to do with your values, is still up to you.
I have a dear friend sitting a fellowship exam in a few months. Said friend is brilliant – we’ve known each other since first year of medical school, and when she’s passed this exam, she’s qualified to be far richer than me. Her specialty is so safety-critical (there are varying degrees of this depending on what field you choose), that it has an exam when you start training, and an exit-exam at the end. And like all medical exams, they’re a curious mix of vague multiple choice exams, essay questions on things you know nothing about that you’ve never heard of in your day-to-day job, and face-to-face arrangements where you either stand in front of a bunch of serious looking guys who are all much bigger than you, answering questions on scientific obscurity, or, getting 6 minutes (in front of same bunch of guys), to examine someone and confidently make a diagnosis, usually obscure. FUN right!
The BEST part, is that there is no real curriculum. It’s not like university where, for the most part, if you show up to lectures and do your readings you’ll do alright, and if you’re really interested you’ll get HDs. Or you do the easily-available past papers and your lecturers write questions based on the semester material. There’s ‘the curriculum’ they provide you, which is really just a list of all medicine. (Hot tip; there are now over 7000 drugs you can prescribe, let alone all the diseases, genetic mutations, crazy new drugs, diagnostic procedures – I could go on!). There’s also the part of you (especially when you’re a woman, occasionally one of your examiners might be a woman but that’s it), that just isn’t used to the idea of being a specialist doctor. You think, ‘who, me?’ because ten minutes ago you were playing beer pong in a seedy bar in medical school thinking you were the coolest ever because you’d never been cool until that moment you played beer pong. But specialists don’t play beer pong, they wear suits and have serious faces and Know Everything. Their juniors are scared of them and scramble at the slightest hint they’re coming to make sure everything is ready and beat themselves up for a good week if they haven’t gotten to something, longer if the specialist gives them grief about it. And you’re a junior for so long you don’t know what it is to be a boss. Does anyone?
One minute you’re in medical school playing beer pong even though you don’t like beer, thinking you’re the coolest ever, hiding up the back of the lecture theatre with your friend hoping no one asks you a question while your friend does the crossword, or standing in the path lab being told about the special tubes in some machine when really you just want a nap – and suddenly you’re sitting fellowship exams? About to become a boss?? Really?
And yet, here you are my friend. Yes you, about to become a boss. And here I am bursting with pride, watching you jump into that black hole of study.
Studying for these exams is like being blindfolded and tied up and straightjacketed and asked to swim in a straight line across a lake. Nothing you do is every enough. Everyone is better than you. Everyone studies better than you, and magically is going to do better than you. It is mandatory that you beat yourself up for not understanding statistical theory they offer whole degrees in. If you’re a guy, you grow a long beard and it’s not movember, out of some strange time-marking ritual. You can’t speak to anyone. You don’t want to do anything but study but you can’t study because you’re exhausted from your 12 hour shifts that usually go much longer if you’re a caring doctor. You walk outside and the light blinds your eyes and you see regular people doing regular things and they feel like aliens. You do really badly on your practice exams. So badly sometimes, you can’t even talk about it because if anyone found out The Truth, they would know that you don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve to be a boss, what are you doing here? You get 35% on a practice exam, how dare you even dream of it? Most people would give up, surely?
Except you do deserve it. And here you are. Dressing up and showing up, in one way or another, at that study desk days in and days out. Doing good some days, badly on others, not enough on some, too much on others. Trying to find that balance that can’t be found. Falling down that rabbit hole that has to be gone down for success. Entertaining the idea, that subversive, dangerous idea that maybe you can. Maybe, just maybe, all that learning and forgetting and learning and forgetting, and failing and succeeding is just exactly what you need. On the day you’re going to see that question you failed a thousand times over and you’re going to remember the answer. On the day you walk into that room and there are 5 guys in suits, maybe a token woman, you’re going to remember every single guy in a suit who gave you grief over the last 6 years and know that they can’t hurt you.
And because you’ve passed all of your exams with high marks so beautifully before (or maybe you didn’t but regardless, you still got here), you’ll know that you can do this because you’ve done it before. You know that all those study sessions, the long ones, the short ones, the failed ones, the successful ones are all just coins in a bucket and you’ve filled the bucket up a thousand times over. On the day, you’re going to walk in there and everything will just kick in, you wont be you anymore, you wont have control over what you say because your training will take over and the fancy, suit wearing specialist will take over and choose the best answers for their patient. The safe answers, the caring answer, the non-experimental answers, the ethical answers. And even if the roof caves in and the exam is cancelled you know you’re going to be okay and that the sun will keep rising whether you want it to or not, and all of your friends and family will be cheering on the other side, roof or no roof.
All of this is a process of shedding your skin and growing a new one. It takes time, and it’s painful and it doesn’t necessarily go smoothly.
Here’s the best part though. You’re not going to be that specialist. You’re not going to be the one in the suit with the five other serious looking ones who gave you grief when you were an intern. You’re going to be the one with the kind smile. With the twinkle in their eye. Who tells their intern not to sweat it if they didn’t follow up on something non-critical within 3 hours of being asked to do it. You’re going to be the new breed, the next generation of specialist. The dynamic, friendly and brilliant kind who are currently just sprinkled about like little oases of relief in a world of so much stress and anxiety. That’s who you’re becoming right now. Try it on. You’ll probably find that it fits better than you ever imagined.
No matter where you are in medicine – first year, or pre-fellowship, this post is for you. All the very best of luck.
I write this with a heavy heart. No dot points, a bit all over the place, but that is how these things go. If you’ve ever experienced pregnancy or loved one loss, don’t read this. You don’t need to. You know it all already and you should live your life and not relive your losses.
A few years ago I became a medical registrar. In my state, you become a registrar 3 years out of medical school. In some other states, that third year is a quasi resident-registrar year in which some jobs you’re a reg and in others you’re still doing discharge summaries. But in my state, you’re sent to a regional or rural site to ‘break you in’. Three weeks after being a paper-pushing resident, I was the medical registrar for the hospital at night. All medical admissions had to be seen by me. All sick patients on the wards, seen by me. And in a curiosity I think specific to my network, there was no week off after nights. You would show up to your 8-5 day job, on Monday, work until Thursday, then on Friday, try to sleep during the day, and start nights. You then did 7 12 hour nights, finish the following Friday, have two days off, then return to your 8-5 day job. 2 days off in 3 weeks, to give you an idea of the workload.
In medicine, as a resident or registrar, you don’t sit. When the boss rounds, you always offer them the chair when there is a chair (not often). You don’t have your own desk or phone, there are desks and phones but they’re usually shared between you, the nurses, the physios, the occupational therapists, the pharmacist, the social workers and everyone else who needs it. Of course it depends on how well funded your hospital is, sometimes the doctors might get a cupboard with a lone computer in it but it’s rare. You don’t sit, you stand and walk and stand and walk. Sometimes when you’re tired you perch on the end of the patient’s bed. As an intern your feet hurt all the time but it goes away eventually. You see your patients, you come up with a list of things that needs to be done for them (a management plan), always with the goal of getting them home safely. The list includes tests you need to do to confirm your suspected diagnosis and any new ones that usually come up, other services who need to see the patient who need to be called, and starting/stopping/adjusting medications. You do this for everyone. You admit patients, by writing up their history, examination, and a management plan. Am I procrastinating telling my story enough?
My husband and I had been trying for a baby for the last six months of residency but nothing had happened and we decided to take a break. I was starting a new job in a new hospital, and besides, it’s not like we’d be living together anyway – he had a job in the city and I had to work a couple of hours drive away, and frequently on weekends. The new job hit me like a ton of bricks. At first it was alright, I had a supportive group of consultants, but I was a fish well out of water. And then, I rotated. You rotate every 3 months in your early years. Every 3 months, new job. New bosses, new juniors, new allied health, new systems, new patients, new fridge to put your lunch in. It’s exciting and intermittently dizzying. I rotated into the hardest job I’ve ever had in medicine. 3 months out residency and suddenly I was on-call, every 3 weeks for one week.
On-call in this job meant, that from 8am Wednesday to 8am Wednesday, anyone, from the 4 hospitals in the area, laboratories, GP’s, and sometimes patients, could call me. They would call me about sick inpatients and sick outpatients and did I want them admitted, they would call me to come in and see people they were worried about, the labs would call me about patients with terrifying lab results who weren’t my patients but were known to our service, resulting in me scrambling to figure out who the hell they were and where I could find them in a very large geographical area. This was in addition to my day-job, where I had 30 patients, and 20 consults daily, which I usually managed to finish at 8pm on a good day. The calls would come at dinner time, 2am, 3am, 5am, any time really and at any of those times, I had to go into the hospital if required. Even if I had been in the hospital for a couple of hours since 2am, I had to be there at 8am, ready to go. On the Saturday and Sunday, I would round on any patients under the service who were sick, and any consults that were sick, and any new consults. On the following Wednesday, I would turn off my phone at night with relief.
It’s really boring to complain about how busy your job is, especially in this job. Everyone has a more hardcore story than you. Some wear it as a badge of honour ‘if you’re not working your guts out, you’re not working’ sort of mentality. That’s medicine. I didn’t write all that to complain about it – that term freaking made me, but I wanted to set the scene.
A couple of weeks into that term, I discovered I was about 5 weeks pregnant. We’d stopped trying trying but weren’t actively not trying. And what should have been happy news filled me with terror. For some reason, the medical workforce had put me on my own in a dodgy flat in a dodgy part of town. I had no idea how I was going to do this job and be pregnant. No one I knew had kids. My family were all interstate. I’d worked so hard to get a coveted job in this network, and now I was letting them down. How dare I? They didn’t have to hire me but they did, when it was so competitive. Would they think I didn’t take the job seriously?
At the same time, I was being bullied by a more senior colleague. I can’t go into detail because it ended blowing up to something far greater than myself and I was told by administration I was not allowed to disclose any of it. To anyone. Not even my supervisors. I wouldn’t talk about it here anyway as it’s far too identifying but needless to say, this dragged me down into the deepest of holes, pregnancy aside. Adding first trimester fatigue, hormonal changes, nausea into that mix, along with the on-call, was a recipe for disaster. I started withdrawing. I didn’t see it at the time, but I stopped going online as much, talking to my friends and family as much. I’d go home and turn on the TV and pretend none of this was happening, alone in that dodgy little apartment. I swallowed Maxalon, showed up to work, did those hours, put up with the bullying, didn’t go to the bathroom, didn’t drink any water, and pretended everything was completely normal.
Two weeks later, my aunty died. She was a driving force in my life, a second mother when my own had to work, being a single parent. Her acerbic brand of humour, rampant feminism, and menthol cigarettes touched my life in more ways than I could ever count. She was only in her late fifties and the cigarettes had given her lung cancer. She’d gone into hospital for something unrelated and died suddenly of a cancer complication. Nothing is ever really sudden in stage 4 cancer, but it wasn’t the slower deterioration I was used to. I flew interstate to her funeral which was a mistake, as much as I loved her. I finished my on-call, drove the two hours back to the city, got on a plane, went to the funeral, flew back the next morning and drove the two hours straight to work from the airport. I was exhausted and it was a stupid thing to do. She would have been horrified.. And I kept going on at work. Getting bullied. Being pregnant and telling no one, sick to my guts, so fatigued I could hardly see, withdrawing from everyone.
And then I started bleeding.
There is nothing in the world like that moment in the early pregnancy assessment clinic, when they send you to the ultrasound and you look up at the screen and see that little, unmoving circle. I was 11.5 weeks when it happened. You don’t need to hear the sonographer say ‘no heartbeat’, you can see it. Everything just stops and zooms right onto that awful, little moment, in that tiny little room. I stopped. My mind stopped. My husband’s head was in his hands.
Afterwards I disappeared into a hole. I don’t have a lot of words to describe that time. For the rest of the year I was a zombie. I stopped talking to everyone, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t compute. I’m incredibly lucky I have the most incredible friends in the world who didn’t let me drown. Even when I didn’t speak, they didn’t let go. Flowers arrived. A little gift here, a kind word there. These were the protective threads that without even knowing, I held onto, that carried me through. I hard deleted my Facebook account which is surprisingly difficult, (it’s not the same as closing it!), and just turned off the Internet. I didn’t want the conversations of normal life, of the flow of life, when mine had stopped. I showed up to work. I suffered through that fucking term. It didn’t matter anymore how hard I was working because there was nothing left to lose. My hair fell out. My husband and I entered a strange place, that place where you lose your innocence about pregnancy, where you lose the ideal that to be successful you work your guts out. Something broke in us both. I can barely remember the rest of that year. I remember trying to study for the exam but staring at the wall. By the time the written exam had rolled around, the damage was done. I failed it by 4 points.
I will never know if that miscarriage was due to all of those incredible stressors. 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage, and someone told me at the time that it’s exceptionally hard when it’s the first pregnancy that is lost. In hindsight though, knowing what I know now, I would never, ever, have let the job run me down like that, as a pregnant woman. All of the lessons I wrote about in Part 1 were learned in that black hole of a year and oh, if I had my time again! So if you’re reading this, don’t despair, go back and read Part 1 because it really can be okay if you prioritise yourself and your baby above everything including the job. It’s a hard change to make, especially in medicine, where you are the last priority, but you just have to do it. I lost so much that year, and it has taken me years to rebuild.
And so I don’t leave you feeling sad, here is the epilogue to that story. On the day I found out I had failed the exam, between my tears I also was lucky enough to be telling people I was 12 weeks pregnant, scan confirmed. And everyone in my network was elated for me (a pleasant surprise!) And although there were more lessons to be learned (like, do not let your employer put you on those shitty set of nights where you get 2 days off in 3 weeks, in the last trimester), it was nothing like the year before. And when my daughter was finally born, my whole world opened up again and because of what had happened, she was more adored and loved than any baby on this planet and always will be. I sailed through the written exam on the next go, 25 points clear of the pass mark, and then passed the clinical first-go too (which is a whole other excruciating story). Because in the end, this too shall pass, and it really really did.
If you’re reading this, and have guessed who I am through this somewhat identifying story, please respect my anonymity. I write this because I hope I can help others in that hole, who are in a unique situation, but I cannot continue to write without the safety of that anonymity. Thankyou for reading.
I hadn’t thought about writing this so thankyou for the suggestion Shedidwhatnext. First of all, and absolutely first of all, if you’re a pregnant medical registrar, or about-to-be medical registrar, congratulations!! This is a good thing! Babies are wonderful!
But that wasn’t your first thought, was it? In spite of this happy news, your first thought was oh shit. Oh shit, what have I done? Now you’re wondering if you’ve thrown a nuclear weapon under your career, you’re wondering if your DPT is going to disown you, if you’re going to be that pregnant medical registrar who everyone whines about slacking off at work ‘just because they’re pregnant’ and mutter about ‘special treatment’.
I repeat, congratulations! It’s still a good thing in spite of those scary thoughts.
Everything I am going to tell you is with the benefit of hindsight. Take my advice or don’t take it (because advice is cheap), but know that I learned everything the hard way, and this is what I wish I had of done and known. Here it is in list form because I struggle to think in any other way these days.
- Being pregnant is a special state of existence. I’m not being self-entitled, I’m not being earth-mothery, I am being practical. Pregnancy is a unique, physiological condition that people cannot understand unless they have been there or unless they’ve had loved ones go through it. The hormonal fluctuations, the fluid shifts are insane. The fatigue is insane. The sleep deprivation intense. The mental fog from all those biochemical changes and the stress you’re under. And then all sorts of other things can happen that we wont talk about because it may not. The point is that you DESERVE special treatment because of it. Those people who mutter words like ‘unfair’ and ‘special treatment’ are ignorant. They might sound very certain, as ignorant people tend to do, but they’re not. They’re not in your world so they don’t count.
- YOUR pregnancy is unique and there is no such thing as a perfect one. It. does. not. exist. So when you develop SPD, or the nausea doesn’t go away, or you get intercostal nerve pain and the muscles rip off your ribs because your kids head is off the chart thanks to Dad’s noggin (not bitter or anything;) ), don’t beat yourself up. It’s okay, it will be over in a few months.
- Tell your DPT. Especially if the exams are coming up. Even if it’s before 12 weeks. I made the mistake of not saying anything. I was doing relief, I was on nights, I was sneaking Maxalon, I was finishing my round and going to my car and sleeping whenever I could. I didn’t know you could write a letter to the college and they would give you special dispensation for a seat near the bathroom during the exam. I wish I had of done this. I will explain in my next post. This is a personal decision and I understand if you don’t want to do it, because telling someone means untelling them so I leave it up to you, but I wish I had of.
- Join the AMA in your state. Right now. Especially if you’re at a hospital with a less-than-supportive medical workforce. They are amazing. Most doctors don’t know their rights. Most are led to believe that speaking up about unfair working conditions will harm their career which is one of the last greatest myths in the job. It wont hurt your career but it WILL hurt the career of the person trying to pull it off. There are people in the AMA who have the power to make or break careers, and they’re there to protect your rights. I have a few very good examples of the AMA stepping in with legal advice and representation and not only ridding the unfair request made on the pregnant/new parent, but actually improving the workplace for the better. It’s expensive but it’s tax deductible. I wish I had of. I wish I hadn’t of worked those 7 nights in a row with 2 days off and then back to the day job at 32 weeks pregnant because the terrible SPD and migraines with vision loss wasn’t worth it.
- If you’re struggling, talk to your obstetrician about your work conditions. They are very helpful and will write you a letter in support. Mine offered to call my DPT and demand I not work in the conditions I was asked to. Again, I wish I’d said yes.
- You need people on your team. See points 4 and 5. The AMA, your obstetrician, your family, and supportive colleagues. The hospital is FULL of people who have kids who’ve been treated badly and will look out for you.
- Prepare to be pleasantly surprised. Most people don’t think you’re lazy and getting special treatment. Most people love a pregnant lady and want to help in any way they can. Let them help. Shoulders to cry on, cups of tea, interns who will go the extra mile for you, they’re all there.
- You don’t get to not drink water all day and not go to the bathroom all day anymore. Yes we all do it when we’re not pregnant, but the placenta needs blood flow and so does your brain. Please buy a giant water bottle and drink a lot of water. Don’t faint at work. Don’t deprive the placenta. The placenta needs you.
- CALL IN SICK. CALL IN SICK. CALL IN SICK. CALL IN SICK. Do I need to repeat myself? You WILL thank me. This job is not worth you or your babies health or life. If you can’t do it you can’t do it so CALL IN SICK. You have my permission. Blame me. This is what sick leave is FOR.
- There will come a point when you DO feel like that lazy registrar. When you can hardly walk anymore, when you haven’t slept, when your back hurts. If you need to go on maternity leave early, just go. Better to leave a good impression than a bad one to people who just don’t bloody get it. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t cover yourself in glory at work in the final trimester, most people are pretty understanding, and…
- When you come back to work for a visit while you’re on mat leave, with a tiny little baby (and make sure that you do), all of those people who made you cups of tea or let you cry on their shoulder, or who did a bit of extra work to give you a break and maybe even grumbled about it, will feel like they had a hand in that babies creation, and that will make them feel good, and suddenly all the mutterings about ‘special treatment’ will be replaced with a little bit of guilt. The people who didn’t treat you right, who see the new mother with the little, entirely dependent on you human, will also treat the next new mother with a little more grace next time too. Or a lot more grace if the hospital’s management has hauled them into a meeting after the AMA got involved and made them look like a despot 😉
So congratulations again! And no, your career isn’t over – but don’t make any decisions until the baby is born. Go on maternity leave, try to have a job to return to, but things may change for you. I was always going to be that person who got a full time nanny and returned to work full time because career, but once she was born, it was like a new, incandescent universe opened up in my life and tossed out everything I’d ever thought about it. Colleagues who’ve been super-maternal with plans of part time and/or staying at home, have found themselves putting the kidalid in full time daycare/nanny and returning to work full time, quite happily, for their own sanity.
There is no right answer, there is only the one that works for you and your family. This is your new mantra, because everyone is going to have an opinion. Take what works for you and unashamedly ditch the rest. And congratulations again!