His hands are cold As his lifeless body Lies upon the table At the coroner’s office. My mom is beside me Stroking those fingers, Tears rolling in waves Down her cheeks. I watch in horror, The reality is only now Beginning to sink in To
Where is that mysterious place that we send all our “labs” to? Everyday, we round and round on the wards, wake up patients, and poke and prod them to get an idea of what they have and get a sample of their tissue. As the
On valentine’s day, I watched my first heart stop. I watched the monitor dance as I thrust my aching palms onto his sternum. He lay there, still while his body was rocked and jabbed and compressed in between, he seemed. His body still moaning and
A recent article in the journal Cancer that focused on racial disparities in cervical cancer mortality has garnered widespread attention. The article, “Hysterectomy-corrected cervical cancer mortality rates reveal a larger racial disparity in the United States”, was reported on in a New York Times Health
Doctor, do you hear the terror in my broken tenor? It is but a muffled, garbled front for what, set free, unaltered, would shatter the very windows. and with them, all these vials, within which my sick blood swirls. And those thin panes of
#1: Heart Disease There once was a megalomaniac Who suffered a sudden heart-attack He thought himself best But failed the stress test Vanquished by coronary plaque A man once had hypertension His vessels protesting in distention He simply couldn’t halt His intake of salt Not
I made an astonishing discovery recently. There’s a screening program that could have reduced President Barack Obama’s risk of dying of lung cancer by 20%, or even 33%, while he was in office. Were his physicians careless, or does a “33% reduction in risk” not
Four years of undergraduate education, four years of medical school and then residency—that is the winding road to becoming a doctor in the United States. It is long, expensive, and compared to just five years of medical school followed by residency in Pakistan, seemingly ridiculous.
Dear readers of Doctors Who Create, Thank you for being our fans and supporters. We know many of you are busy, but we’ve been encouraged by your excitement over our posts and the eagerness of the DWC audience to see more. We are a team
According to the World Health Organization, over 8.2 million people died in 2012 because of the effects of air pollution. The United Nations environmental agency estimates that one in four deaths globally are due to environmental degradation. Adding an additional estimated 250,000 deaths annually from
I introduced in an earlier post the idea that statistics can be both deceiving and revealing about the complex world around us, especially as they relate to screening and medical care. Notably, I believe that we might approach these discussions differently if the numbers represented
As the first day of gross anatomy closed in, I tried to prepare myself. The problem was I had few comparable experiences to draw upon—which, when it comes to slicing open a human body, is definitely not a bad thing. There was one dissection in
Dear Standardized Patient Number 1, and Number 3, Mr. C from the 3rd Floor of the Reinberg Building, and Ms. P from across the hall, dear Mr. L from just last Thursday, and the Mrs. L I’ll meet one day, Did I ever say thank
Numbers and statistics may seem to be the furthest thing from creativity. They are objective and unwavering. Yet numbers can tell stories, and the pictures they paint can dramatically alter the interactions that physicians have with their patients. Consider the following example: Your patient undergoes
While the city sleeps tucked beneath a dark embrace my mind hears yours. Talk. I am listening. Though nothing but a frail soul beating in basement of cadavers answers. I know you are here. In the heartbeat of silence I imagine a house, a car,
Sitting on the high granite ledge overlooking the fog as it drifted onto the valley floor, obscuring the golden headlights as they weaved on hidden roads, carrying hidden lives, I finally felt a semblance of peace. I had come here to escape the tragedy that
For you I would spend the next four years of moonlight squinting my eyes into the blinding luminescence of an Anatomy atlas, dancing with the skeletons in my Netter’s notecard stack until they become like you, everlasting striations of my latissimus dorsi; and for you
After my recent month long affair with the kidneys, I decided to turn my affection into an ode of farewell, in the style of Whitman’s “O Captain! My Captain!” O Kidneys! my Kidneys! our fearful trip is done, Old heart has given in at last,
The last king raised the funds to build the hospital. Projects of this scale is difficult to achieve without an expansive capital or a groundswell of public support, and bonds were sold in order to finance the construction of the medical center of Ethiopia, in
“Did you notice what you were doing there with your hands? You were going like this,” he said, wringing his hands into knots. “I could see how uncomfortable you were and that made me uncomfortable. Does that make sense?” “Of course,” I said, “I would
