Last night I saw a few patients at Dr. Bob's student-run free care clinic that takes place Wednesday nights. Every time I get a little bit better at one thing, it just gets harder: for instance, I've figured out how to fill a syringe and deliver an injection at the proper 90-degree angle, but then I realize that I've done none of the hard work to coo at and calm down the screaming toddler receiving the shot. Or, I've learned to read a blood test and identify iron-deficiency anemia, and I even flexed my "depression screening-stress counseling" skills for the first time, but then I realize that I did nothing to determine the underlying cause of the patient's anemia or counsel her as to prevention. In a chart it notes that a teenage girl had a negative pregnancy test a few weeks back: do I assume the provider at the time counseled her as to birth control and safe sex, do I take that on myself, or do I schedule a follow-up for more counseling?
Thus my feelings at the end of a clinic night are ambiguous or mixed: pride is followed by awareness of gaps and subsequent disappointment in myself. Do I end the night feeling optimistic or downtrodden? This is where I'm grateful to the residents and attendings, who witness the night and are our immediate role models. Their support and encouragement comes when it's most needed: it's okay, they say, and I should feel good about it.
You know what does get easier each time? Chicken soup. That universally makes me feel good. This time I tried an ultra-simple recipe: 1 whole chicken, 2 celery sticks, halved; 2 carrot sticks, halved; half an onion, 1 turnip, chopped; salt and pepper. Boil all together for 90 minutes, then serve with chopped celery, carrot, and onion, cooked in the soup for about half an hour, and rice, cooked separately.
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