Today I have a practical exam; that means doctors are shadowing me. It’s my turn to talk with patients about their diagnoses, and I’ve been looking forward to that part of medicine.
It’s my second patient; she’s here for vaginal discharge. I go in, introduce myself and explain my role. I’m still mediocre at documentation, but I’m good at putting patients at ease, so we make small talk. She just moved here from Chicago — a fresh start after a tough breakup. She’s a manager at a luxury apartment.
You can tell she’s had years of working people from all walks of life. Her manner is polished. If she weren’t sitting on the exam table in a paper robe, you’d assume she was the doctor and I the patient. We’re close in age. We talk about how cold Seattle is and how difficult apartment management sounds. I joke that I quit social work (my former career) to avoid dealing with difficult customers. We have that in common. We’re close in age. Under different circumstances, we might have been friends.
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