I just discharged the last patient on the Teaching
Hospitalist Service at Community Hospital.
It was probably appropriate for me to do so, because I admitted the
first patient to the Hospitalist Service in 2003. Like most endings, it was more of a whimper
than a bang – just me in front of a computer, typing in discharge instructions
while the Respiratory Therapist marched my patient up and down the hall to
assess his home oxygen needs.
Usually my role in the hospital is to head an intimidating
phalanx of trainees in white coats from room to room as we decide on plans and
explain things to patients. I don’t do a
lot of paperwork because it’s the resident’s job to manage that. I’m more there for teaching and guiding. This year, July 1st meant not only
new residents and students for the school, but no more residents or students at
Community Hospital, as they had pulled their funding from the medical school
for the new academic year. So it was
just the attendings taking care of the last few patients on our service – first
7, then 5, then, when I took over on Wednesday, 2.
It’s all politics, and I’m sure we’ll be back at Community
Hospital at some point, but today is the end for this particular chapter. As I walked out the front door, I went past
the greeter, who says hello to everyone who comes in and goodbye to those who
are leaving. Some of the greeters don’t
say hello to the employees who go past, but this one does. And she notices you, which is such a
marvelous thing. She says “Nice tie!”
and “Boy, it’s early, you sure are dedicated!”
Today as I came in she said, “There she is, the fashionista, as always! You look like a fashion plate! You’re beautiful!” As you can imagine, this lady, Jackie, has been the best thing
about my day on many days at Community Hospital.
So of course I had to tell her this was our last day as I
left. It was kind of an overly dramatic
thing to do, but I knew she was going to give me a hug, and I kind of needed
one. After she hugged me, she asked why,
and I shrugged and said it was politics. “Well, we’re friends, why can’t we all
be friends?” she answered. And then she
told me that she was one of the medical school’s first patients back in the
1970’s when the school started. “The
clinic was a house!” she told me. “The
lab was the kitchen!” Then she teared
up. “The world is going crazy,” she
said. “We’re going to pray.” And standing
there in the lobby, with TV screens full of hate and fear all around us, we did.
