From our anonymous insider…
This week: White Coat ceremony; an exciting heart dissection lab; and our first real patient interactions.
In anatomy lab our goal was simple: remove the heart. Most textbooks depict the heart as a vertical organ, with the left and right atria lying on top of the muscular left and right ventricles. Our trauma surgeon described this as one of the greatest illusions of human anatomy. Instead, the ventricles are anterior to (in front of) the atria. We began by opening the pericardium, revealing the great vessels leaving and entering the heart. The aortic arch got several “oooh’s and aww’s” as we constricted this massive 1-2-inch-diameter thick-walled vessel. Once all the great vessels connecting the heart to the body were cut, the student would run around holding a human heart in the air, like Simba was held up in the Lion King.
Lectures detailed the embryological development of the lungs. Lungs begin developing at around 20 weeks gestation (18 weeks after fertilization; gestation is measured from the last menstruation). However, due to a lack of sufficient gas exchange sacs to sustain respiration, the lungs do not become pre-viable (sustainable out of the womb) until 23-24 weeks. Even after 24 weeks, a baby’s lungs are barely developed, and the most common cause of death is respiratory distress. The slightest complication, for example, a respiratory infection, could lead to death.
Our patient case was a baby born at 24 weeks, about 16 weeks before she should have been born. The mother detailed how she was having a healthy first pregnancy when she suddenly went into a rare form of premature labor. An emergency C-section saved the baby and herself. “Kate” was brought into the world at 1 pound, 6 ounces (normal baby weight is 6-8 pounds).
The family expressed pure love for the neonatologist who “gave life to” Kate in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). “You should all become neonatologists,” exclaimed the mother, “and if not neonatologists, then obstetricians!” The young couple had thought that the birth was the difficult part, but at 26 weeks Kate had a severe hemorrhage in the developing pulmonary vessels. As the neonatologist and nurses scrambled around the incubator, the parents were stunned. The neonatologist absently muttered, “This is not good.” As the mother recited this trauma, she paused and broke out in tears. The father continued, “We did not know what was happening. One moment it was fine, the next, lights were blinking everywhere, sounds going off, people running.” Blood vessels in the lung had ruptured. There were two serious concerns: first, the ventilator, which is breathing for the baby, gets clogged. The neonatologist and nurses frantically tried to vacuum blood out of the airways to prepare to insert another plastic trachea tube to ensure the airways remain open for respiration. After this was successful, the neonatologist knew the longer-term threat: stopping a massive bleed causes a sudden large volume return to the heart. When the heart pushes this additional blood into systemic circulation, immature blood vessels in the brain can rupture. If the baby does not die, this causes severe brain damage roughly half the time.
The neonatologist and family spent a nervous night waiting for to know if this cerebral hemorrhage had occurred. The family described their euphoria when the smiling and crying neonatologist came into the room with the test results: the blood vessels of the brain did not leak. The whole class crowded around as the family showed pictures of Kate today: a healthy, albeit slightly small, energetic toddler.
The White Coat Ceremony is a tradition dating back to 1993. Friends and family descend on the medical school to watch deans help each student into a white coat. The 1.5-hour ceremony was followed by a reception where parents snapped away with smartphones. The next day I would wear my white coat with my first patients, shadowing a Primary Care Provider who had trained in the Navy, but left after his four-year service obligation.
After the nurse took vitals, I introduced myself as a student, giving each patient the opportunity to demand a fully trained doctor (nobody did!). Then I interviewed the patient and performed any exams I felt pertinent, such as listening to the heart and lungs. I then reported back to the physician and we would return to the room together for discussion with the patient. It was empowering to walk into the patient room with my white coat on and a stethoscope around my neck!
Our first patient’s chart indicated an alcoholic smoker with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD). An episode of pneumonia had put him in the hospital for a week and he was here for a follow-up to confirm that his lung tissue had recovered. The lungs looked as good as they were going to get, so we sent him home. Next we treated a child’s ear infection, saw a type 2 diabetic, and checked on a hypertensive patient. Our last patient, in his mid-20s, had knee surgery nine months previously and was prescribed oxycodone for post-operative pain. He had been transitioned to tramadol, a less intense opioid, and, after reviewing the chart, the physician and I agreed he was likely asking for a refill, which should be denied. I asked if I should remain outside. My attending said, “No, you should see this. As a doctor you’ll deal with it too much.” After a brief exam of the knee, the conversation quickly turned to the subject of getting a tramadol refill. The doctor said that it is time to transition to a different pain-management strategy. The patient asked, aggressively, “Why? This is working. It’s the only thing that helps with the pain. How could you do this to me?” When the physician would not budge, he put his hands over his head in desperation.
The four-hour clinic taught me to make sure to get the full list of prescription drugs each patient is on. We had to consider four drug interactions when evaluating a switch to a new hypertension pill for our patient with high blood pressure, who was already on 12 different medications. None of my classmates were surprised by this story; one shadowing a neurologist said, “Two of my patients were on over 17 drugs.”
Statistics for the week… Study: 14 hours. Sleep: 6 hours/night; Fun: 1 outings, class halloween party! Medical school budgets bring out homemade costumes. My favorite was Ron Burgundy and Veronica Corningstone of Anchorman.
The Whole Book: http://tinyurl.com/MedicalSchool2020