Courtesy of Cherie Fathy <\/p>\n
We had just finished our endocrine unit when I noticed a lump in my neck. Perhaps school had made me more vigilant, or perhaps I merely fell into the realm of hypochondriac medical student, but I couldn't ignore this lump. <\/p>\n
I set up an appointment with my doctor, fully expecting a diagnosis of what's sometimes called medical student neuroticism. Instead, she agreed that it was a peculiar lump, and though she believed that it would ultimately prove to be nothing, she was ordering some tests just to be conservative and careful. I approached the tests as an educational experience, something that would make for a good story. <\/p>\n
And then one day as I was studying in the library, I found I was having a hard time focusing on anything but the lump. I felt an overwhelming need to check the results of the ultrasound that had been done, so I shakily typed in my password to access the test results; I scanned the radiologist's note until I landed upon the words \"biopsy recommended\". I guess I hadn't realised just how much I had compartmentalised the experience until I read those words over and over again. With my face red from crying (and embarrassment over my public display of emotion), I quickly gathered my things and ran home. Do I tell my father? Do I tell my friends? It could still be nothing. <\/p>\n
I just wanted it to be nothing. <\/p>\n
The first two years of medical school, the preclinical years, teach students about disease in the abstract, as testable material. We detach ourselves from reality as we memorise a constellation of symptoms and treatments presented from a podium or a textbook. I have been guilty of occasionally forgetting that what I am studying may be a patient's worst nightmare. <\/p>\n
As students on the wards, we see mere snapshots of our patients' illnesses. We are there as patients receive a diagnosis in the clinic or a treatment in the hospital. What we don't see is a patient at home deciding whether that lump is even worth checking on or a mother dreading when to tell her children what she has, or how to even begin telling them. <\/p>\n
A full two months after my initial doctor's visit, time that was filled with scans and biopsies, I received a phone call that confirmed my worst fear. I had thyroid cancer. The news shattered my sense of invincibility that, as a 20-something, I had taken for granted. <\/p>\n
Almost 63,000 people will be diagnosed with thyroid cancer in 2014, according to the National Cancer Institute. As a student, I had seen its gross pathology, studied its microscopic appearance and even constructed mnemonics to commit the signs of the disease to memory. I quickly learned that the 10-minute lecture we had on thyroid cancer left out quite a bit of detail, and now those details were personal. <\/p>\n
When I sat in front of my surgical oncologist for the first time, I had just experienced one of the most radical shifts in my life. He told me that my treatment would include removing my thyroid gland and any affected lymph nodes, and this would be followed by a radioactive iodine treatment. The radiation was in the form of a pill that directed radiation to my thyroid cells, destroying any that may have spread to other parts of my body. The only stipulation was to stay away from others for at least a week while I was radioactive. <\/p>\n
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Originally posted here:<\/p>\n
Medical student developed illness she was studying<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Courtesy of Cherie Fathy We had just finished our endocrine unit when I noticed a lump in my neck. Continue reading