“Go ahead, take a listen to her heart,” the doctor said. “I’ll come back in a few minutes and we’ll discuss what you hear.”
And we were alone. Alone with the patient, that is. Six students, uncomfortable in white coats literally too big for us, on the second day of medical school. The patient sat expectantly on the bed, waiting for one of us to approach. She wore only a hospital gown, a sterile green, of course, — some of her chest was exposed — our preceptor had (very quickly, I thought) modelled how to auscultate her heart sounds and had not completely replaced the patient’s gown. Her husband looked on from the corner of the room, disapproving of our nervousness and hesitance, or so I imagined. And if he did, it was with good reason. Some of us had not even purchased all of our supplies yet and had to borrow them from a classmate. Others had never spoken to a patient before. None of us knew how to use our stethoscopes. Or how to approach a patient’s physical exam with dignity.
One by one, we crossed the distance that separated the patient’s bed from the wall where we were all huddled, introduced ourselves, fumbled with our earpieces, worried about where to put the diaphragm of the instrument, whether we were actually hearing anything or just imagining it, how far we should displace the gown, what was the appropriate way to move her breast —
I was second in line. Some time to plan what I was going to say and how I was going to act. Some time to collect myself. Some time to put on the face of someone braver and smarter and older than I was. A minute, a few seconds in between my classmate’s attempt and mine. Really, no time at all. Silence. A “Hello,” a few instructions, a light pressure. Hand on shoulder. Metal on skin.
Heartbeats.