I’ve taken a hiatus from medical school. Yep, I’ve turned in my white coat for a velour tracksuit (also known as the housewife uniform). I’ve decided to take a month off and due a nursing rotation of sorts. 

These past 3 months have been some of the most stressful of my life. I started third year with no problem, actually enjoying school for a change. I didn’t dread waking up every morning, and I was starting to get the hang of taking care of patients. However, throughout the past three months, I’ve waited on pins and needles for phone calls about my grandmother and about my dad’s multiple test results. I would read statistics about delirium and how 40% of people who experience delirium will die within a year. Imagine having to study about the pancreas while wondering if these terrible things you’re reading about are happening inside of your dad’s body as you read. It wasn’t easy and did not lend itself to A) wanting to study or B) concentration.

When I got news that my dad had a lesion on his pancreas, I was doing my neurosurgery clerkship. I desperately wanted to run into my general surgery resident with whom I really had a connection in order to talk about it. For various reasons, I didn’t see her for over a week since finding out the news. When I ran into her in the surgery locker room, I asked if she had a minute. The second that I blurted out that they found something on my dad’s CT scan, I burst out in tears. Her response was “as medical professionals, we’re all living on the edge–we live in fragile balance between holding it together and coming undone.” I’ll never forget that because I am now totally aware that that’s how I’ve been living. I live day-to-day trying to take care of others’ loved ones while wondering who’s taking care of my loved ones.

I could feel myself coming undone these past few months. Many times during the week, I knew I just didn’t feel like myself. I had zero concentration, I couldn’t accomplish simple tasks, and I would stare at my books as my mind wandered. At times I felt very lonely. I knew way too much about my dad’s condition and that he would certainly have surgery–even when the GI doctor told my parents otherwise. I knew that the only surgery done on the pancreas was a huge one. I still feel lonely sometimes. I know too much. I know exactly how surgery will happen. I know how they will prep him for surgery–positioning him just so, vigorously scrubbing the surgical site, setting up sterile field, all while the anesthesiologist works frantically to intubate him.  I know what it’s like to make that big incision . I know that my dad will be used as a teaching example for excited residents and medical students who can’t wait to see this Whipple and don’t care that it’s my dad. I know that the resident will get to do more on this Whipple than he/she got to do on the last. i know that the medical student will get tired of retracting and that her arm might feel like it’s about to fall off but that she can’t say anything lest they want to get yelled at. I know that at the end, the surgeon will leave the room to let the resident and medical student close, and if the student is lucky, she’ll get to throw the stiches and sutures. I also know that the medical student might not have the famed suturing skills that I did

I know too much, and as much as it can be a lonely position, I also realize that it’s an honor to know so much. Every time someone from the family calls me to ask a medical question, I smile. When my aunt wanted my opinion on my grandmother’s care, I was floored. The fact that people trust me and look to me for answers is a responsibility that I really enjoy. 

For now, I’m going to leave my white coat at the door, and just be my dad’s advocate. I’ll probably annoy him by making him follow the doctor’s orders. I’ll probably annoy the medical team by wanting to hear and know everything. But this is what I need to do–for my dad, my mom, and my own mental health. Time to go pack up the velour tracksuit, I’m off to Carmel tomorrow!