Since beginning my medical education, I had been on one side of the curtain; the side where the doctors confer and discuss before telling the patient his or her fate, going from room to room giving updates and prognoses. I interacted with patients for the purpose of getting their histories and physical examinations, collecting all the data so that I could present the case to my attending. I was engrossed in learning medicine, and in the challenge of being the best I could be at my job.
The day I walked into the CCU, I was about to start my last rotation of medical school. I had matched into residency and was eager to graduate. Finally, I was at the end of one journey and ready to begin another. Unfortunately, my exciting transition from medical student to doctor had coincided with the swift decompensation of my stepfather’s congestive heart failure. After a surprising initial diagnosis only three years prior, my 48-year-old stepfather now had an ejection fraction of only 10 percent. He was now on the heart transplant list.
My mother and I rode up in the elevator together. On my first steps inside the unit, I was stricken with an odd sense of familiarity when I saw what were (clearly) residents and interns sitting at the nurse’s station. I felt a kinship with them; somehow I was already comfortable in a CCU I had never set foot in before. I instinctively used the hand sanitizer dispenser before entering my stepfather’s room. I greeted him with a big smile and a hug, surprised by how much color he had in his face.
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