The first time I ever saw a patient die was just over two years ago, only a month or two into my first clinical placement as a third year medical student. She was an older lady, maybe in her mid sixties, with advanced uterine cancer. The resident and I found her lying on top of her bed, eyes wide and fixed in place, her body rigid as concrete.
Gary donned a black suit, black gloves and a black soul. The effects of Gary’s actions were felt by every patient in the hospital. It was child’s play for him to fly under the radar. His actions were effortless, his crimes heinous. He did it again, and again, and again, and again. The great deception was that he rarely, if ever, got the blame. After all, there was always someone else that would take it for him.
‘Death, of course, is not a failure. Death is normal. Death may be the enemy, but it is also the natural order of things.’ ~ Atul Gawande, M.D.
In a neatly-pressed suit jacket with a comical bow tie to counter the mood of the occasion, I strode down a narrow hallway of flickering fluorescent lights and grime-covered concrete walls in the only direction available; straight ahead. I checked my watch and noticed the hands go haywire. Continue reading
The Auricle 