Intern
Authors: Sandeep Jauhar
intern
A DOCTOR'S INITIATION
SANDEEP JAUHAR
FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX ⢠NEW YORK
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FARRAR, STRAUS AND GIROUX
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Copyright © 2008 by Sandeep Jauhar
All rights reserved
Distributed in Canada by Douglas & McIntyre Ltd.
Printed in the United States of America
First edition, 2008
Portions of this book originally appeared in different form in
The New York Times, The New England Journal of Medicine
, and
The Lancet
.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jauhar, Sandeep, 1968â
Intern : a doctor's initiation / Sandeep Jauhar.â 1st ed.
    p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 13: 978-0-374-14659-7 (hardcover : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-374-14659-4 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Jauhar, Sandeep, 1968â 2. Medical studentsâUnited StatesâBiography. 3. Interns (Medicine)âUnited StatesâBiography. 4. Residents (Medicine)â United StatesâBiography. I. Title.
[DNLM: 1. Jauhar, Sandeep, 1968â 2. PhysiciansâPersonal Narratives. 3. Internship and ResidencyâPersonal Narratives. WZ 100 J4095 2008]
R154.J39 A3 2008
610.92âdc22
[B]
2007009161
Designed by Gretchen Achilles
1Â Â Â 3Â Â Â 5Â Â Â 7Â Â Â 9Â Â Â 10Â Â Â 8Â Â Â 6Â Â Â 4Â Â Â 2
This is a work of nonfiction. The author has changed the names and identifying characteristics of most people. Dialogue is recounted from the author's memory.
FOR SONIA, RAJIV, AND DAD
BUT MOST OF ALL, FOR MOHANâALWAYS, ALWAYS
prologue: captive
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T
he cardiac monitors are whistling like blowpipes and the ventilators are playing the kazoo. I pull open a sliding glass door and close it behind me. In the dark, I can barely make out the patient's face. It is delicate, wrinkled, almost peaceful. The ventilator that has sustained her for nine days sits unplugged in a corner, next to a small aluminum sink and a pullout toilet. Clear plastic bags of medicated fluids are hanging on a metal pole next to her bed. On the wall is a cheap print of a coastal village with yachts floating on azure blue water. I gaze at it for a moment. Right now, at four o'clock in the morning, it seems impossibly far away.
The data from the monitor swirl in my head like a maelstrom. I'm not sure what it all means, but I do know that right now the patient's blood pressure is normal and her heartbeat is a regular picket fence. I sigh, relieved. Nothing more for me to do tonight.
Then she opens her eyes. “Welcome, Doctor. Will you have a drink?” She points in the dark toward the fully stocked bar. “You know where everything is. And fix me one as well.”
I ask her where she is. “My apartment,” she replies, bewildered. She seems to know nothing about being sick or in the hospital.
I stare at her quietly. “It's too much trouble for these people,” she says.
“Which people?” I ask.
“The people . . . People . . . It's too much trouble.”
I assume she means the nursing staff. “Are they coming into your room?” I ask.
“I don't know,” she replies. “Coming here, coming there . . . coming anyplace.”
The monster has come back. Only hours earlier it took up residence in Mr. Schilling down the hall. I found him sitting at the side of his bed, his sheets soaked with blood. “Get me out of here!” he roared. “You're keeping me here against my will.” The head of his penis was lacerated. A nurse explained that he had pulled out his catheter.
“You can't keep me here! I don't belong in jail.” Earlier he had spoken to me quite normally of his grandchildren and his country club. Now he was a raving lunatic.
“I am a doctor!” I shouted, grabbing the lapels of my white coat. “This is a hospital, not a jail!”
“It is a jail,” he cried, “and you are the warden!”
I ordered him sedated, and though I was confident that he would soon be his normal self again, I stopped outside his room to ponder what Dr. Carmen had told us residents that morning. “Get this patient out of the unit as soon as possible,” he warned. “People like him don't do well here.”
No one could ever say what exactly caused the monster to appear, but something about the environment of the intensive care unit makes some people lose their minds. Perhaps it is sensory deprivationâbeing kept in a windowless room, away from family and familiar things. Or perhaps it is the sensory overloadâbeing tethered to noisy machines running all day and night. Perhaps it is sleep deprivation or pain. I had read about brainwashing experiments on American POWs: in environments of intense isolation and immobility, they often experienced psychotic
reactions. But that was the jungles of Southeast Asia. This is a respected hospital on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
“I wish I could be a better host, but I've been under the weather,” my patient explains, and I nod cautiously. For a moment I wonder whether perhaps I am the one who is hallucinating. Maybe she is sitting in her living room. Maybe I am about to pour her a drink.
“You've been sick, but you're getting better now,” I tell her, hoping to jog her memory.
She looks through me. Even in the gray light, her eyes appear bloodshot. “Yes, Doctor,” she says. “Now please fix me that drink.”
I squeeze the bag of saline hanging next to the bed. “Thank you,” she says sweetly, and then goes off to sleep.
I head back to the conference room. Through a window the moonlight is shimmering off the East River. A barge floats by, loaded with crates. The steady current provides comfort, especially now, the nether time, when it is too late to go to sleep and too early to be awake.
The door to the conference room closes behind me like a trapdoor. I dim the lights; in the middle of the night, bright lights are almost unbearable. I gaze at the grid on the whiteboard. Twenty beds, eighteen patients, a nearly full unit. Scribbled in each square is a list of scut work. Still so many tasks to finish. Still so much to do before morning rounds.
I can hear the alarms behind the door. Some are low-pitched, like the sounds a head submerged underwater would make:
glug, glug, glug
. Others are high-frequency chimes. Sometimes they ring out of sync, like dueling banjos. Out of the din I hear the Berkeley Campanile announcing the turning of the hour. It is a sound from a different time, a different place. I am surprised that I still remember it.
I start running around the conference table, hopping up and down, shadowboxing. My fists are furiously pumping up and down as I fling away the tension that has accumulated over the past few weeks here. I am running, runningânow sprinting. My legs seem to possess a spirit of their own. I am back on the Fire Trail, racing around the reservoir, punishing my calves on the steep, crevasse-ridden hills. Now I am slipping
on the polished tile floor, punching stiffly at the air while “Sympathy for the Devil” plays in my head. I am running, running, trying to escape: the patients, the monster, this hospital, this life. Perhaps Mr. Schilling was right. Perhaps this is a prison. Perhaps we are all being kept here against our wills.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.
The education of a doctor which goes on after he has his degree is, after all, the most important part of his education.
âJOHN SHAW BILLINGS,
THE BOSTON MEDICAL AND SURGICAL JOURNAL
, 1894
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very profession has an apprenticeship, and the apprenticeship in medicine is called
residency
. The first year of residency is known as
internship
, when new medical school graduates rotate through different hospital settingsâoutpatient clinic, intensive care unit, cancer wardâto learn how to treat patients and see how medicine really works. This introduction to the profession is a legendarily brutal year, for many doctors the most trying of their professional lives. Working eighty or more hours per week and staying up every fourth night or so on call, most spend it in a state of perpetual exhaustion, as near ascetics with regard to family, friends, food, sex, and other pleasures. The intensity of the training has inspired a kind of awe among medical students, perhaps not unlike that of minor league baseball players waiting for their chance to go to the majors. Medical school is the farm team; internship is the show.
I was an intern a decade ago now, but I still remember it the way soldiers remember war. After our son Mohan was born, my wife, Sonia, also a doctor, referred to the newborn period as a kind of internship,
and it definitely wasn't easy, staying up night after night. But taking care of a newborn was very different from internship. In internship, when you were awakened in the middle of the night you had to be prepared to deal with almost anythingâand in the worst possible state, too. It didn't matter if you felt like you were going to drop. You still had to be at the top of your game.
After the internship year, a doctor can work as a general practitioner, but the skill set that has been acquired is so limited that most people go ahead and finish residencyâseveral more years of training, depending on the clinical specialtyâto become full-fledged physicians. In my field, internal medicine, which has a three-year residency, second-year (or junior) residents supervise interns. Third-year (senior) residents supervise interns and junior residents. Together, interns and residents constitute the hospital (or “house”) staff. After finishing residency, many physicians elect to do a fellowship: one to four (or more) years of training, depending on the field, to further specialize. By the time they get to the senior level, that of attending physician, many doctors are already in their mid-thirties.
This book is about my residency at a prominent teaching hospital in New York City. The story goes up to the point when I decided to pursue a fellowship in cardiology, my specialty, and thus covers the most formative period of my education as a doctor. For me it was a disillusioning time; I spent much of it in a state of crisis and doubt. I had trained as a physicist before entering medical school, and ten years of uncertainty about my choice of a profession came out all at once. In his path-integral formulation of quantum mechanics, Richard Feynman hypothesized that when a particle travels from point A to point B, it traverses many different paths to arrive at its destination. This certainly seemed to apply to my journey into medicine. Because I had lived another, more sedate, professional life, the one I had to endure in the hospital was even more difficult to bear.
My goal in writing this book is to give others a sense of that confusing, tumultuous time, my initiation into the guild of which I am now a proud member. My hope is that readers, on their own journeysâmany
of them in the medical professionâwill draw lessons and perhaps even inspiration from my experiences. The experiences will be especially relevant, I think, to medical students preparing to make their own forays into the hospital. Laymen often view doctors as Type A overachievers with little self-doubt. I hope this book will serve to dispel that myth.
Everything that appears on these pages actually happened to me. However, most names and identifying details have been changed to preserve confidentiality; in some places, time has been compressed or the order of events has been changed for the sake of narrative cohesion; and in rare cases I have used composite sketches to better represent my experience. I write only of my own experiences, but I am sure that most residents have undergone similar ones. Doctors' professional lives are built brick by brick, case by case, but the foundation, residency, is much the same.
Not long ago, when I was interviewing a student for a residency spot at the hospital where I now work, the applicant said, “Perhaps the easiest decision a doctor can make is to become one.” I must have frowned, for that definitely had not been the case for me. I was a reluctant traveler when I started on my journey into medicine, and this ambivalence surely affected how I coped with it. For much of internship I felt buriedâin a waking hell under the weight of my own (and others') expectations. Only when I learned to accept my limitationsâand the workings of the strange new culture I found myself inâwas I able to start digging my way out and emerge a less conflicted physician, if not exactly doubt-free.