By Larry Puls @larrypulsauthor
Three AM. The witching hour. I was twenty-four,
naïve, roaming the hallowed halls of Parkland Hospital, trying to piece
together what I’d learned from my first two years of medical school. Living on short naps. Living on a hope that one day, all of this would make sense. Our team’s mantra was, "sleep is for the weak". I think that’s how
it went. Such a different world back then.
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| Medical Education, A Brush with Death |
We finished rounding. Yes, three AM. Did I say that already? Do patients really want to be seen then? Mine was not to reason why, mine was but to do and (?)... Concluding the floor work, I was hopeful I might slip off and sneak a little sleep before prepping for “morning” rounds. But that thought disappeared with a phone call, a pleading request. Help was needed down in the Emergency Department. A
backlog of cases had been created by the nebulous Dallas Knife and Gun Club—or
so it seemed. My next three hours had just been defined. Not going to be
pretty.
