A Resident’s Obligation

1 || our lives before the virus: we slipped into the hospital before six
+++in the morning; bought our first cup of coffee; sailed into work
+++rooms and anchored ourselves to desks; we talked about patients
+++and numbers and pathophysiology; we danced our way into patient
+++rooms when they were asleep; we slipped our stethoscopes under the
+++covers and heard the music of heartbeats interplay with breath
+++sounds; we smiled when the music was familiar, we took pause
+++when it was not; we weaved throughout the hallways with
+++computers and large teams; we presented—everything seemed so
+++performative; clinical conditions changed—we responded; parents
+++were angered—we responded; nurses were frustrated—we
+++responded; new laboratory studies resulted—we responded; we
+++counted the hours until we would leave the hospital; we counted
+++the hours until we would have to return; we loved the medicine—
+++trust me, we did; we hated our hours and the lack of autonomy but
+++how we loved the medicine; if our fourteen-year-old selves saw us
+++now—they’d be proud, right?

2 || our lives during the virus: some hospitals have long winding lines
+++of hospital employees who await temperature checks prior to entry;
+++we don’t; we drift into work rooms—there are fewer of us—
+++and we fear one another; we don’t touch; we don’t hug; we verbalize
+++our distress into the void—did anyone else hear it—we see our
+++patients (begrudgingly); we put on protection that we don’t
+++believe in; our stethoscopes move more quickly; we feel guilty
+++for our outlook but we want to survive; friendly faces are harder
+++to tell apart with masks in place; our schedules are reshuffled—we
+++accept; our electives are slashed—we accept; our plans are cancelled—
+++we accept; our vacations become staycations—we accept; adults are
+++slated to roll through our hospital’s doors—we accept; individuals at
+++other institutions are pulled from their disciplines to join the
+++front lines” and we feel immense pressure to do our part; we rejoice
+++when we can peel off PPE and slide our masks into our labeled bags;
+++the roads are empty and there are few pedestrians; when we are
+++in scrubs, they cross the street; months ago they were convinced that
+++we wanted to use vaccines to give their children autism and now we
+++are heroes; it feels good but only sometimes; if our-fourteen-year-old
+++selves saw us now—they’d be proud, right?

3 || our lives after the virus: the hospital will still stand and we, the
+++residents, an ever-expandable workforce, will be there; we will
+++show up to work, coffee in hand, stethoscopes around our necks;
+++we may look the same as we do now but we will be different
+++because things will be lost in this pandemic—and some of those
+++things will be parts of ourselves; if our fourteen-year-old
+++selves saw us now—they’d be proud, right? God, I hope so.

Ajibike Lapite is a Philadelphia-based second-year categorical pediatrics resident. She has a passion for narrative medicine, advocacy (specifically refugee health and access to care), and medical journalism. She shares advice on how to approach medical school in her series “How to Survive Medical School” on her blog Stilettos + Stethoscopes. She earned the third-place prize in the 2017 Hope Babette Tang Humanism in Healthcare Essay Contest and her narrative medicine work has been published in Academic Medicine. Outside of the hospital, she sleeps…a lot.