Above, more pictures of my library. My shelter. I've gotten some new chairs for itóMeda chairs (much handsomer than Aerons). It's enamored me so much the other rooms in the house are neglected.
Sick today. I suspect that Small-Head Dave shed some malignant little viruses when he invited himself over for the Sopranos last week, and they've had a nice few days to incubate, deposit themselves in my tonsils and precipitated a prostaglandin storm. Bastard. Constitutionally, I deal with illness rather poorly. I think my system overreacts to infections and sets off a torrent of cytokines and prostaglandins that render me a creaky, achy, sweaty wreck of a person.
Today I've taken 650 mg Aspirin, 600 mg Celebrex, and 400 mg Ibuprofen. Who wants to bet that I've burned a hole in my stomach? There probably isn't a single functional cyclooxygenase molecule in my body. And I still feel flu-y.
Surg Path is boring the crap out of me. I really like pathologists, but could never be one.
I missed the Leonid meteor shower. I heard that this was supposed to be the best it will be for the next century. Slept through it. Wasn't even aware of it. A once in a century event passed in the early morning hours. Wonder what other momentous events I've missed because I was either never informed, or lacked the perception to remark them.
One thing I've also learned over the last few months is that my ability to read people is really rather limited. My intuitive IQ is probably 50 or so. Matters are worse because I've always thought it was 150. Worse to overestimate your acuity than to be stumbling around myopically thinking you're the one-eyed among the blind.
Over the last couple of weeks, I've finally "moved into" my library. Nothing could be better. Surrounded by my books with my computers close at hand.
This is my space.
Huguenot Cemetary, Dublin, May 2002.
A picture taken on my trip to the Oncogenomics 2002 meeting.
The first time I see Mr. Rawlins is in the operating room. He is already asleep. You can tell that he used to be a big man, but he is sick, and there is a pruned thinness in his limbs. He has advanced stage IV lung cancer, and his right lung is bound in a tight capsule of inflamed tissue. He cant breathe and we are going in to free his lung up to make him more comfortable. The procedure, in its sanitized way, is called a right video-assisted thoracoscopic decortication, which means that we make 3 small incisions in Mr. Rawlinss side, inserting a small fiberoptic camera in one, long, tweezer like instruments through the others, and clean up the mess. The attending surgeon Im working with is a virtuoso at this sort of thing.
Mr. Rawlinss right chest is filled with bloody fluid and debris. I drive the camera as the attending and cardiothoracic resident clear it out, and dexterously strip off the suffocating binding cancer has wrapped around his lung. And were out again.
Later, in his room, his daughter is sitting on his right next to a window that looks out onto the concrete span of the parking garage.
How are you feeling Mr. Rawlins? He opens his eyes. Their blue is a startling contrast to his pallid skin and tousled white hair.
Tell him how youre doing Daddy,
All right, he looks surprised and closes his eyes.
Can you cough for me, Mr. Rawlins? I have to check for an air leak. As I inspect his chest tubes, I describe to her what we saw in the operating room. She wants to know. People like to know more, even if the attending has already spoken to them. Its comforting for family that other people know whats going on.
Ive just come back to clinical life. After several years pursuing a doctorate in a basic science lab, its back to patients and the daily deluge of morning labs, CT scans, and chest X-rays. Returning for my last year of medical school is a shuddering culture shock. Im older than most of my residents. A third of the drugs they use are new to me, and theres an urgency on the wards that my former laboratory flasks of tissue culture cells just didnt demand on a daily basis. On the other hand, where our goal in lab was to generate knowledge novel enough to merit publication, the sort of knowledge required of me as a medical student, intern, or junior resident is textbook knowledge and clinical pearls shamanistically memorized and regurgitated by generations of trainees. Ive shifted gears, but my clutch work is not perfect, and I can hear the gnashing of the synchros.
A short, polyester blend white coat reminiscent of a ice cream delivery mans marks me as belonging on the bottom rungs of a long ladder of clinical training. The Rawlins family doesnt care though, theyve gotten used to my waking them up at 4:00 every morning, and stopping by every afternoon. Mister Rawlins happily complies when I ask him to cough for me. We talk about his golf scoreshes a scratch golferand his other daughter, the older one, tells me about the farms and hiking trails they have around their place in Virginia. Im supposed to come up and visit them sometime.
One afternoon, I find the medical intern on the floor drawing a blood gas out of Mr. Rawlinss wrist. The intern is cross-coverage, but its clear that Mr. Rawlins is more disoriented, and less responsive to people. They transfer him to the intensive care unit that night. Over the next weeks he is cheerful when I can wake him, but more confused.
Do you know where you are, Mr. Rawlins? We have to ask silly questions like this because they become less straightforward the sicker the patients get. He doesnt remember.
Whats your favorite hospital? No one should have a favorite hospital.
Duke, he says and smiles brightly.
Hes fading. Soon hes transferred back to a regular room. There are dozens of get well cards taped to the walls. Theyve taken away the heart monitor. Theyve stopped drawing labs. He now has to wear an oxygen rebreather mask and his chest retracts as he gasps for air. The older daughter is distraught. More family are in town.
One evening, in a spare moment, I go upstairs to check on him. The room is dark and empty. Theres a gauze wrapper on the floor. Up front, a nurse tells me that hes gone.
The wards are acquiring their evening hush. The elevator whispers open, its empty and I enter slowly. Still in my hand are the stapled index cards on which Ive recorded Mr. Rawlinss vitals, labs, and medications for the last few weeks on the service. I slip his cards into the inside coat pocket where I keep retired index cards. Theres a momentary loss of gravity as the elevator accelerates downwards.
Its bad and good to be back.