"Their Stories Continue" 2nd place essay

As a 3rd year medical student, I look back on a trauma night shift where I had the opportunity to chat with two particular patients. Hearing their stories clued me in on where they are from, how they got here, and where they might be going. I thank them for encouraging me to understand patients as a continuum even though we often encounter just snapshots into their lives.

Patient #1: 39 year old male, CC: head trauma, fell from bunkbed while inebriated

The pitiful humor only grew

upon laying eyes on your messy face

Framed in your immobility, you become sober and ashamed

Sullen eyes becoming

far too awake

To how low you’ve gone

but how high might you go?

“Oh, whoa! What are you doing man?!” the patient exclaimed as he clamped down on the intern’s finger and proved normal rectal tone. Unfortunately, the patient had been too intoxicated to register our warning about this invasive exam maneuver. Whispers of his story circulated about the trauma bay, raising a quiet wave of snickering. It appeared that this grown man had nosedived from the top of a bunk bed, drunk out of his mind like an overgrown college frat boy. Now here he was in the ED, helpless on the gurney with a neck brace to elevate the look.

Feeling awake after some IV fluids, he conversed with me as I debrided his facial abrasions. He asked to see how bad the damage was. I showed him his reflection until he turned away, saying, “That’s enough, that’s enough.” He’d moved to Hawaii a year ago because it was his dream, but it wasn’t going so well. Earlier that night, he fell from the bunkbed of the shelter he was staying in. It was just too embarrassing, he expressed. Tearful and regretful, he apologized for wasting our time with this moment, the lowest point in his life. I could only reply that he was not a waste of our time, and that sometimes, we hit rock bottom before things turn around.

Patient #2: 43 year old female, CC: facial laceration from motor vehicle collision

The bleeding would not stop from the corner of your eye I had to look again for your blood looked like tears And every time you winced I felt strength, not weakness

In the strong grip of your hand around my willing palm

“Where is my husband?” she asked. He was around, just not in the trauma bay at her side. She was a passenger on a bus that had rear ended a truck during her commute home. On impact, she was thrown forward, crashing and sustaining complicated facial lacerations. A stubborn cut near the corner of her eye would not stop giving off beads of blood that looked like tears.

“I’m from Maui,” she shared. “I got remarried recently and moved to Oahu for my husband.” She missed her son and everyone else back home. If this had been Maui, I imagined her family would have swarmed the ED. Here, she looked alone. “Can someone hold my hand?” she asked as the we began to repair the damage. It felt unsettling that I, a stranger, was holding her hand during a time like this. But it also occurred to me that she was strong to open up in this unfamiliar moment and accept help gracefully. As I wiped away the blood in her hair and dressed her wound, I hoped that she felt cared for, just as she is cherished by everyone she missed that night.