this.is.christian

Oh those cheekbones

I’ve seen those cheekbones before, too many times. They’re high and angular.

They spell D-E-A-T-H across his face - a skull covered in a thin veneer of skin.

——-

You are going to die.

Soon.

Is all I can think. Over and over and over and over while he is talking, while he is thanking me for my help.

——-

But I did nothing for him.

——-

He doesn’t really know it. I mean he knows it, but I can tell he doesn’t really understand

that he is dying.

Soon.

——-

I shake his hand and say goodbye. He thinks I am saying goodbye because he’s leaving the hospital. But he is wrong. I am saying goodbye because he may not wake up tomorrow. I am saying goodbye because he is about to die.

——-

I leave the room. I walk down the hall. Slowly. I don’t notice the nurses and the families and the patients as they stream by like cars on the 405.

——-

Goodbye David.

Come on in.

It’s about 10:30 AM and I have just returned from grand rounds. I hurriedly change into scrubs and throw on my coat. I get a text with my teams’ location so I rush out of the resident room and take two steps when I realize my shoe is untied. So I stop. I squat down and begin to loop and swoop when I hear a mature woman voice…

“Come on in, and take off your clothes” it says.

Still squatting, I drop my laces and look up. I realize I have stopped directly in front of an open room.

There is a 60 year old woman in a hospital gown peering at me from her bed…

I have been propositioned more times in the hospital in 4 months, than in my entire real-world life. This is not a triumphant realization.

I am not a doctor.

And there we are. Gowned and gloved, draped in lead, tearing into his thigh.

Somehow, he’s alive. It’s kind of ironic, the same drugs that pumped him up enough to jump off a 13 story building, may have saved his life.

We cut, spread, drill and hammer a railroad spike into his femur.

It’s 5 AM. I’ve been up for 25 hours. The surgeon looks at me and says “So you ok closing things up here?” and then he leaves. I look at his gaping wounds. I have no idea what I am doing but I start to sew…

15 minutes in and I have made minimal progress. The nurse realizes I am a medical student and there is no doctor in the OR. She’s pissed. She runs out of the OR.

She returns with the surgeon in tow.

Thank God.

Cheek Bones

Models would kill for those cheek bones, I think. But these are not beautiful. No, these bones are disease. 

I don’t know him. I’ve never talked to him. But every morning my team checks up on him.

They ask “how is your pain?”

They rip off the tape and gauze that covers the 10 inch wound we gave him.

They check how much stool there is in the bag we attached to his belly a week ago.

He looks sad. He looks scared. He is in pain.

Then we leave.

———

Today we checked up on him again. It was different this time. He was lying on his back, feet higher than his head. He was struggling to breath, I could see it from the hallway. He looked like a mackerel, trying to breath in a world he just wasn’t meant for.

———

“Did you see his albumin?” my senior says to me.

“It’s less than 1 dude. Its fucking less than 1!” my senior says almost excitedly.

“Yeah he’s not going to do well.” my senior says.

“Yeah he’s going to die. He’s going to die soon.” my senior say.

———

You’re right, it’s not a big deal.

Death, I mean.

So this is love.

They slip from my mouth like a whisper, and even as the words float away from my lips, I am not sure it was me that said them.

“Oh-my-god”

—————-

I am looking through his medical records to learn about my new patient.

So this is what a 12-month-old’s head looks like after getting dragged for a quarter mile underneath a tow truck.

So this is what a 12-month-old’s arm looks like without skin, in all its tendinous, terrible beauty.

So this is how quickly one man can ruin another’s life.

And this is what rage feels like.

—————-

I knock on the door and brace myself for the image that is about to be burned into my memory. I imagine a disfigured child. I imagine weeping parents. I imagine…

—————-

The picture in front of me is something entirely different, and something I will never forget: a little boy - head bandaged, arms splinted, wounds unabashedly displayed, stitched together like a miniature Frankenstein. He takes a break from the bottle Dad holds in place for him to offer me the biggest smile I’ve seen all year. It’s a smile rivaled only by his father’s.

—————-

And once again, those words slip from my mouth barely as loud as a whisper

“Oh-my-god”

—————-

So this is innocence.

So this is forgiveness.

So this is love. 

Pediatrics

I am shadowing a world famous geneticist. We go to see a 4 year-old boy with short stature and hyperactivity.

Well, let me clarify. When I say “we” I am referring to this geneticist, a resident, another medical student, two genetic counselors and myself. Add the parents and the kid and you get 9 people in a 10 X 10 room plus exam table and chairs. There is barely enough room to breath.

Imagine taking a 4 year old boy with ADHD and making him chug a galloon of kool-aid. Next give him a couple toys, and put him in a tiny room with 8 adults talking about boring shit. This kid was reaaaaal hyperactive and reaaaaal bored.

So the geneticist is discussing genetics stuff with the parents, and I am standing against the door watching this kid ricochet off the walls, chairs, floor - anything at all - like a ping pong ball in a tumble dryer. Then he discovers me. He runs behind my back and stops. He thrusts his hands between my ankles and when my legs part he dives through them. He stands up and struts over to me again. His head barely reaches my crotch. He tilts his tiny head upward to gaze at me with his big and widely spaced eyes. We have a moment.

I think, he’s kind of a cute little kid.

He is still staring at me, and I am staring right back. And then I see his hand, its clenched in a fist and cocked as far back behind him as he can reach. I know exactly what’s coming but before I have time to react he swings. He lands a flawless right hook to my balls. I let out a muffled cry like a muzzled puppy and crumble in defeat.

The geneticist doesn’t pause for a second.

End.

Cancer

This isn’t the good kind of testicular cancer, I think to myself. This is the kind that spreads to your lungs and your gut and then strangles the life out of you until your soul slips from your body and you are cold and pale and alone. He’s nearly 10 years younger than I am, I think to myself.

I am standing in the corner of his tiny room. My hands are in the pockets of my ridiculous white coat. I am trying to hide from his empty gaze. I am intruding.

There is an LA Times article on his table titled something like “Cancer Patient Teaches Med Student Life Lessons”.

The irony is bitter. I want to leave. We leave.

Gyn clinic #1

My resident hands me a chart. I glance at the patient info:

“Patient X, here for repeat genital wart treatment, room 3”

I knock on the door to room 3:

Me: Knock

Pt: Yes, come in

Me: Hi, I am Christian, it’s nice to meet you

Pt: Figures I would get the cute doctor

Me: …

Me: …

Me: You have anal warts

End.