Many trauma seasons ago, I assisted on the repair of an abdominal gunshot wound. After stitching the long vertical incision closed, I nearly collapsed. I hadn’t had any food, drink or sleep the entire night. My mood darkened seeing the empty vending machines already raided by the anesthesia residents. Only one Butterfinger bar remained. I inserted coins. The candy bar lurched forward, then came to a halt — millimeters from the edge. Enraged, I rocked the machine until the bar fell. I grabbed the candy reward and bolted to morning rounds.
I joined the intern circle. Each of us were in varying stages of hunger, sleep deprivation and fear as we awaited the god-like attending, Dr. Rosenkranz. I tore the wrapper and took a crunchy bite, flecks of artificial orange clinging to my teeth and tongue. I tenderly tucked the treat into my white coat pocket. Suddenly, like a ghost, Professor Rosenkranz appeared and ordered me to present the case. With my mouth full of Butterfinger, a special kind of panic seized me. I swallowed hard and gagged, which propelled the candy out of my pocket onto the floor. I needed this like a hole in the head. We — me, the other interns and Dr. Rosenkranz — stared at it mournfully. I proceeded to recite the history of the present illness in a garbled voice, fragments of sweet littering my lips. Dr. Rosenkranz’s initial look of concern quickly morphed into annoyance.
Dr. Rosenkranz took a moment to recover after my presentation. Returning to us, he did a head count. “Where is Dr. Ferraro?”
It was a good time to study the grout between the hospital floor tiles. Noting how stained it was, I worried that I might have to give up the Butterfinger. Unlucky Freddie, a future plastic surgeon, was standing next to Dr. Rosenkranz and received pressuring glances. Looking ill, Freddie said, “She called in sick, stomach cramps.”
Dr. Rosenkranz turned a catamenial red, eyes bulging hyperthyroid-like in anger.
“Listen the heck up” he said. “Do not skip a day of training! A little cold, runny nose, sore throat, monthly cramp?” His eyes rolled. “Never call in sick. Slacking in this profession is not tolerated. Your patients need you, and your colleagues depend on you!”
We cowered. All of us bowing our head, we must have resembled a prayer group. I even closed my eyes.
“Call her in now!” he roared at fearful Freddie. Dr. Rosenkranz’s eyes flitted to the Butterfinger on the floor and then back to us. “Doctors don’t get sick.”
I was asleep standing up, eyes shut. Perhaps I dreamed that Dr. Rosenkranz then turned to pitiful me, saying, “Except you, Ko. Take a day off, you need it. Ko, call in well.” I snapped awake to see Dr. Rosenkranz check his watch and leave in the direction of the cafeteria. I was unwell.
I fumbled in my pockets for coins, hoping the machines were restocked. My eyes caught the empty wrapper fluttering on the discolored floor tiles. Someone had plucked the bar out. For years there was a rumor that Dr. Rosenkranz ate it. I did not take his so-called advice and go home. I sleepwalked through the rest of the day, went home that evening, ate a ton of Butterfingers, crashed, woke up with stomach cramps and came back the next morning for more of the same for the next eight years.
Throughout those long seasons of training, I worked with the flu, colds, a broken wrist, vertigo and all sorts of GI distress. Calling in sick was regarded as weak, lazy and unprofessional. I never took a day off ill, but I eventually did take a day for myself. It happened after a chaotic week of emergency surgeries. After the fourth all-nighter I was short tempered, exhausted and questioning my career choice. As much as I wanted to remain strong and make Dr. Rosenkranz proud, my body said no. I realized that he had seen this in me that morning on rounds. I finally did take his advice and stayed out. I went to a park, sipped coffee slowly, ate my favorite lunch sitting down, marveled at the clouds and watched the sun go down from home. These simple things recharged me. I ultimately retrained myself to take care of me as much as I care for my patients.
The medical culture that says “doctors don’t get sick” is sick. During those times when you are chomping too many Butterfingers, rethinking your commitment to medicine because you’re stressed and over tired, go home to yourself. Weather permitting, call in well.
