The History of a Medical School Sophomore – Blood, Sweat and Tears.

Five minutes. Four weeks. Twenty years. There's something about exact periods, I find the need to conform to - you won't catch me switching back to my textbooks at 6.19, or waking up at 7.38. Not superstition, just out of habit. So, a month after returning to college, here's the reality of the second year of medicine. So far:

September 8 – normally no big deal – was the year's most dreaded date; that from someone who survived the RGUHS University exams. The day I was slated to bid goodbye to my two-month long vacation back home and head to Mysore. My ticket was scheduled so I could reach early enough for the 9 AM clinical posting that started this year. Thanks to hauling 30 kilograms of luggage through Bangalore traffic, it took time to recover from exhaustion and sink into homesickness.

An unlikely selection to the college's group song for the inter-college Fest kept me busy for a week or two. The three-day event got over soon as it began, and while the practice sessions had its highs and lows, ultimately the big day saw me able to sing only alto, completely off-key, thanks to a well-timed sore throat. That remains the only experience still lingering from an otherwise amnesia-ridden event.

Meanwhile classes were advancing in full swing. The ones I took the trouble to attend at least, having depleted all guilt when it comes to cutting class this term. So much for all the talk of being real doctors this year – the first fifteen days were meant for 'intensive coaching', where they ran us through basics of history-taking and patient care. Ironically, half the classes ended with 'you won't get it till you come into the wards – we'll tell you then,' while the other half I bunked. Let down, I fancied at least the theory classes would be captivating. The subjects each looked as promising as the next: Pathology, unraveling the mystery of the crime scene, the human body, hunting for the pathogen in question; Pharmacology and its quest to brew the flawless remedy, sitting back to watch as different parts of the body react to various preparations; Microbiology, exploring the complex world of invisible germs; and finally Forensic Medicine dealing with the legal implications of healthcare and the medical facet of law. Instead, they were simply the perfect occasion to catch up on the sleep our hostel's mosquito population denied me every night.

That fortnight over, my half of the batch got posted in the Surgery department.  At last, some action. Little did I know I'd get more than I asked for. The first day, I forgot the white coat, and was frantically dialing friends up begging them to bring a spare. Once I managed to get one, the Professors came late enough for me to have fetched it myself. There was a lot of confusion with our division into various units, which ended with me separated from Kriti, my ideal lab partner last year. Adding to my dismay was the realization I was sorted with the sharpest minds and loudest mouths of our class.

Fear of being overshadowed gave way to annoyance when I saw the timetable – our unit was to head to the Operation Theater, which meant I never needed the coat in the first place. Crammed in the common room, we changed into green scrubs and waited for further instructions. Soon, a senior walked out, casually checking the notice board, when one of us approached him and meekly asked what the hell we were supposed to do.
A small glance at us and he burst into laughter.
"The operation's over. Go back."

Next when we were to go to the theater, it was a holiday and we missed yet another chance. Third time worked its charm, for we landed the earliest, all geared up to witness scalpels and forceps work their magic. I waited, thrilled and confident I'd long gotten over the anxiety of watching a surgery, all credit to "House", "E.R.", "Grey's Anatomy" and even "Scrubs".

We moved in to the Operation Room, careful not to make any noise. The first thing I see is the doctor administering anesthesia, the syringe lodged in the patient's spine, and all I could think was how in the world the latter was lying motionless during the apparently painful procedure. Then, a few people proceeded to cover his entire leg with caramel-tinged anti-septic. A surgeon moved towards him, picking up a massive scissor-shaped instrument, and started punching four to five "holes" in his calf, as nonchalantly as though he were popping bubble-wrap. My eyes wide-open in shock and mouth a giant circle, lay hidden under the face mask and shower cap. I gulped as the scalpel made its way towards the inguinal ligament, all ready for an incision. I tried to regain composure, assuring myself it would be little different from the dissection we did in the first year.

Only, the skin was the palest shade of brown inside and the blood brighter than ketchup. And I thought they used to exaggerate in movies. My knees grew weak and the room turned dark. I was nauseous and dizzy. All I wanted was pure water and fresh air. I moved aside. Asked whether I was giddy, I nodded, only to be dragged to a nearby bed and made to lie down, the mask and cap pulled down. Before I knew what was happening, a senior grabbed my legs and held them up, so that blood would rush to the head. I went red in the face, both in response to the position and out of sheer embarrassment. I just wanted out of the place, but no one would let me move from the awkward situation.  Declaring myself fit, I heroically went back to the table, but stood behind a screen of students to prevent me from seeing anything, staying sufficiently hydrated, till the varicose vein was removed as required and stitches were put in place. I was the first person out that day.

Day two, we were to get into the wards. By the time I figured out where to go, the PGs had wrapped the ulcer in layers of bandage, leaving little for me to examine. Seeing no other work to assign, they instructed us to take the case history of the patient. There began my next trip downhill – I knew zilch in Kannada, to converse with them. I focused on reading expressions and body language instead, but that only made things worse. I kept empathizing beyond tolerance point, and felt a lump in the throat as I watched the 48-year-old's mother pleading to let the doctors amputate his affected leg, 'for he was useless at home anyway'.

The son was understandably too overcome with emotion and refused to speak anything eventually. Helpless, we explained the situation to the Sir in-charge when he came to check on us, because of which the patient got reprimanded and was told to respond to our line of questioning, 'or else…'

Hesitant at first, we returned to the basic scheme of history taking – name? Age? Place? Occupation? Seeing me clueless, my unit mates generously translated basic sentences to Kannada and asked me to repeat them. As gently as I could, I pronounced each syllable, waiting for the answer. Only, he was as blank as me. My classmate repeated the question, almost too quick for me to comprehend and the response came, glibly.  Not fair, I thought, and decided to listen and learn before confusing him with my accent. Slowly I gather what to look for, how to do so and more importantly, how to stand on my own in the most hostile of environments.

With each passing day, my knowledge of medical terms in the local language is growing, but so are my doubts and fears. Does being headstrong enough to look at a surgery undeterred mean I'd be too desensitized to feel basic compassion? How do I strike a fine balance between empathy and nerve? Will clumsy ol' me fatally mess up a procedure or let my absent-mindedness leave items behind? Would I ever muster enough courage to break bad news – from terminal illnesses to unexpected deaths – to the patient or their families? Will I end up being indifferent to everyone's suffering, the kind of doctor who labels all her patients mere hypochondriacs?

Whether I'd ever attain my goal of being a sincere, sensitive, successful practitioner:
In exact stages or otherwise,
only time will tell...