Find the one

"Let's find the one."

"What?"

"The one person that we helped today."

I sat across from a tired and overworked family physician (who also happens to be my goofy older cousin) as he scrolled through the day's patient list, looking for the one person he could say without doubt, that we helped. Because that snowy day, months ago, at a suburban family medicine practice in upstate New York, was exhausting. We had seen over 20 patients, almost all of which were complex cases with never-ending problem lists and dozens of meds. Some were sick, most were frustrated, all of them required lots of patience.

Half way through the list, my cousin said family medicine is like golf. You might take ten shots, all of which are lousy. But then you'll have one really great swing. And that's the reason you come back.

So we scrolled through the patient list. Out of 21 patients seen, we figured we could confidently say we helped two. Which, according to my cousin, is twice as many as you can hope for on any given day.

I'm often reminded of that moment when I round on post-op surgical patients in the morning. It's always such a surreal "high-five" moment for me, granted I'm still very new and naive and the symptoms of chronic fatigue have yet to fully set in. But here this patient is, lying in front of you on a hospital bed. When sometimes not even 12 hours before, you were operating on them. Using a camera or your hands to manipulate their anatomy and literally cut out the bad. And I figured out this week why these moments are always my favorite out of the whole day. Granted the patients are still in pain from their surgery (I don't like that part). They are probably annoyed that no less than 5 people that day will ask them if they've farted or pooped while waving an incentive spirometer in their face. (And have I mentioned, it's usually 4:30am?) But, instead of scrolling through a list at the end of the day, trying to figure out who you helped, the patient is right there in front of you. Hopped up on dilaudid and covered in purple skin glue, but nevertheless there. The living, breathing evidence of a person you helped when they needed it most.

So if Family Medicine is like golf,  I don't really know what surgery is comparable to. But I've never been much of a golf fan, and there is nothing quite like the smell of Hibiclens in the morning. :)