The time will come when you will do everything “right” and still have things fall apart on you when you least expect them to.

It is, perhaps, the most difficult lesson medicine has to teach its practitioners.

That in the end, there’s so much we don’t control, or understand. 1/
It hits you in different ways.

Sometimes it happens quickly, leaving you stunned.

They call them “crashing” patients for a reason. The smashing of one destiny into its end, with a sick whiplash you feel in your very soul.

And sometimes it’s slow.

A creeping realization. 2/
In the ICU, a patient is crashing hard.

Their nurse calls for help, and soon the room is filled with people.

Working together in a coordinated dance of efficient, goal-directed, movement, they course correct and buy some time.

I don’t yet know this patient.

But I will. 3/
One of the aspects of medicine I love the most is the teamwork.

The reality is that almost nothing happens in isolation. There are teams within teams; people looking out for the patient, and for each other.

These teams make all the difference.

You’re never truly alone. 4/
Teams react to good news in pretty much the same ways. Smiles, joy, elation, congratulations, nods, fist bumps.

The dramatic saves become war stories that are told when spirits need lifting.

But when things go south, every team reacts differently. Every teammate is unique. 5/
The consult request is on a very very sick patient.

I find myself scrolling through pages upon pages of notes in the system, covering several months of hospitalization.

Like a hawk, circling high above the battlefield, I seek out the big picture. 6/
The truth is most doctor’s notes don’t help much.

Billing requirements have reduced the average chart note to an overstuffed list of diagnoses and findings that are too often simply templated, then cut and pasted forward.

But there are still some good notes out there. 7/
The sickest patients usually have a roster of consultants on their cases.

I look through the names in this chart, and smile. This is a great team.

We all have our favorites, even if we never admit it.

People we work well with. People we understand. People we trust. 8/
The cardiologist is a thoughtful and caring man.

When I think of him, I remember the first time I saw him. He was sitting at a patient’s bedside, so focused, so compassionate, I thought he was a family member.

As I got to know him, I understood: he always cares. 9/
His knowledge is extensive. He thinks through problems carefully and systematically, never ruling things out too early and keeping an open mind till the end.

I know nephrologists and cardiologists are supposed to butt heads all the time, but this one makes my life easier. 10/
The infectious disease specialist is smart, perpetually upbeat. Her sense of empathy is why I admire her.

Her sense of humor is why everyone loves her.

A patient once told her she looked like Lindsey Lohan.

She replied without missing a beat, “Parent Trap or Mean Girls?” 11/
She’s the one who’s sitting at the workstation beside me right now as I go through this voluminous chart.

“Tough case,” she says, her voice quiet, “sick as heck, and I’m thinking my antibiotics might be part of why you’re here.”

I nod, “Perhaps… but they’re needed.” 12/
The gastroenterologist walks into the workroom and sits down beside us.

Perhaps it’s because he’s primarily a proceduralist, but he’s very blunt in his assessments.

I admire his honesty.

Sometimes I wish I had his clarity.

He glances at us both, “This patient is gone.” 13/
The ID specialist flinches at his words. I know she’s grown attached to the patient’s family. And I know her well enough to know that her optimism is still burning.

“I don’t know, they’re sick but there’s-“

“Trust me. They’re gone. We’re building a bridge to nowhere.” 14/
A silence falls over the workroom. The only sound is the “click-clack” of keyboard keys.

People have different typing styles. The gastroenterologist is an angry typer. He uses his fingers like bludgeons, mashing keys with force.

His typing sounds like hail. Angry. 15/
It occurs to me that perhaps it’s easier to keep things at a distance if you stay angry.

Maybe the angry typing is really just the laying of bricks in a Great Wall of Protection.

The gastroenterologist leaves, and a melancholy silence descends. 16/
The last person to enter the workroom is the intensivist. He is a good man, technically skilled and possessing that rare quality of being both detail-oriented and aware of the big picture.

He sits down, and sighs wearily.

The kind of sigh that’s familiar in the COVID era. 17/
“You know what I’ve realized?” He asks nobody in particular.

The ID specialist turns to him, “What?”

“That I know jack squat about jack squat.” He says it without smiling.

She scratches her brow, “Well, if YOU know jack squat, Sayed and I are screwed!”

He has to smile. 18/
We start to discuss the details of the case.

Each of us brings our particular expertise to bear. Focusing through our individual lenses, between all of us on this consult team, we have over 100 years of clinical experience combined.

Teamwork is our lifeblood.

Always. 19/
In this way the days pass. We all see our patients, and collaborate in their care.

The sick patient in the ICU takes up most of our time, most of our bandwidth.

Every day I talk to at least three or four other clinicians about them.

Unfortunately things aren’t going well. 20/
Not all crashes happen suddenly all the way through. Some begin dramatically, and then shift into slow motion.

It fools us, makes us think the crash is over, when it’s actually still happening, slowly.

The GI doc was right.

We gave it our best, but the end was inevitable. 21/
It hits us all in different ways.

Some of us seem to move on quickly, unaffected. Some are devastated.

It’s the cardiologist who sits down at my table one day at lunch, and finally addresses the ghost lingering by my side.

“Still thinking about that patient, Sayed?” 22/
I nod, picking at my food, “I keep trying to figure out what happened, if we could’ve done things differently.”

He nods, his voice quiet. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Let me tell you, we had a damn good team, and we tried… but when it’s their time, it’s their time.” 23/
We all understand this, on some level.

When it’s our time, it’s our time.

The last bridge we build is always the one to nowhere. Or, perhaps, to the one place that matters.

I thank him for his words. He nods.

And we move on to discuss another patient.

The next one.

• • •

Missing some Tweet in this thread? You can try to force a refresh
 

Keep Current with Sayed Tabatabai, MD

Sayed Tabatabai, MD Profile picture

Stay in touch and get notified when new unrolls are available from this author!

Read all threads

This Thread may be Removed Anytime!

PDF

Twitter may remove this content at anytime! Save it as PDF for later use!

Try unrolling a thread yourself!

how to unroll video
  1. Follow @ThreadReaderApp to mention us!

  2. From a Twitter thread mention us with a keyword "unroll"
@threadreaderapp unroll

Practice here first or read more on our help page!

More from @TheRealDoctorT

Jan 27
There is a small window of opportunity that occasionally opens when least expected.

A moment where clarity strikes, piercing as an arrow.

It comes as I leave a patient’s room.

Not always, but sometimes.

When they think I can’t hear them.

A parting shot. 1/
The days in the hospital stretch interminably, as they always seem to do these days.

Different things keep me going on different days.

Sometimes it’s the teamwork.

Sometimes it’s the mindset, one foot in front of the other, just keep swimming, whatever you want to call it. 2/
And sometimes the thing that keeps me going is the love of this great and wondrous and messy and terrible and miraculous endeavor that is medicine.

The thing that’s supposed to keep me going.

The beating heart of all this.

The calling, right? 3/
Read 13 tweets
Jan 6
There’s a ghost on the corner of 3rd and Broadway

I noticed him the other day, as I made a left turn at the light.

He wasn’t there a week ago.

He must be new.

Nobody I recognize, but then again, his face is blurry and indistinct.

I look at him now, and I drive past. 1/
Arriving at the hospital, I park my car.

More ghosts here, even in the parking lot.

Some of them stand beside empty cars and look into them wistfully, as if wishing for keys to unlock their escape.

I recognize some of these ghosts.

I look at them now, and I walk past. 2/
The hospital is busier than I can remember it being… ever.

The ER looks like a war zone, hallways filled, ambulances lining up outside.

“Don’t they know we’re on diversion?”

“Who knows man, they came here anyways.”

I grit my teeth and make sure my N95 is tight. 3/
Read 16 tweets
Dec 21, 2021
There once was an oath that all doctors had to take. Something about doing the right thing, and trying not to hurt anyone.

That was long ago, in the 21st century, before the machines. My great-grandfather took that oath.

Machines don’t need oaths.

But I’m still human. 1/
The first thing that hits me is the smell. Coming to the Reach is always a stark reminder of just how impoverished some of us are.

Progress always leaves people behind. The question is who gets to choose who gets left behind and who rises.

I’m here to make a house call. 2/
I’m a physician, although in the 22nd century that phrase has lost most of its meaning.

We always thought people would want the human touch in healing.

But once machines were hitting 100% in their diagnostic accuracy and gene splicing and nanotech were viable, it was over. 3/
Read 25 tweets
Dec 9, 2021
“They just told me I have cancer. It’s everywhere in my body. And you say you’re a kidney doctor? What the hell are you doing here?”

His voice is gruff, and as he looks at me, I feel the weight of his gaze.

For a moment I hesitate, then ask.

“Mind if I sit down?” 1/
“What do I care, you’re gonna be gone in ten seconds anyways. Nobody sticks around, tell that chickenshit doctor who hasn’t seen me in three days that I know he’s gonna bill me anyways.”

I don’t speak. Not now.

He continues, “Sit down, tell me how bad my kidneys are.” 2/
The harsh truth is that my day would be easier if I didn’t sit down.

If I just stood at his bedside and spoke fast, did a perfunctory physical exam, and moved on.

The system incentivizes me to see more people, faster. And the faster I’m done, the faster I can go home. 3/
Read 15 tweets
Nov 26, 2021
They say you should feel lucky to be here. And I do.

They say it’s a privilege, many people would kill to take my spot, so I should be grateful. And I am.

But there are things they never tell you.

There are things that you’re left to discover.

Things taken from you. 1/
The day I make it into medical school is one of the happiest of my life.

I’ll never forget my parents’ smiles, their pride.

Things begin so well too.

White coat ceremony.

Hippocratic Oath.

I feel like a doctor already. I feel the weight of this path.

I have no idea. 2/
I am plunged into a world of high stakes exams, and subject matter so challenging that it pushes me to my limits.

My whole life, I’ve been able to excel if I just worked hard enough.

Not here.

I’m struggling just to keep my head above water.

My grades drop.

I work harder. 3/
Read 15 tweets
Nov 10, 2021
Sometimes, when I’m in the room of a critically ill patient, I feel the urge to turn and look towards the window.

I can’t explain it.

I usually go ahead and look.

I’m not sure what I expect to see.

Someone standing there, perhaps, looking back at me in silence.

A memory. 1/
The Path Forward is the most desirable of medical treatment plans.

Maybe not a cure, maybe not a firm diagnosis, but at least a clear path forward.

Decisions being made, in a sort of harmony between everyone involved.

But every now and then a path can end up in a heavy fog. 2/
I’m sitting at the computer workstation in the ICU, reading the notes in my patient’s chart.

I’ve known this patient for almost a decade. It took years to earn his trust. For years he barely had a spare word to say to me.

But he came to every appointment.

Now here we are. 3/
Read 20 tweets

Did Thread Reader help you today?

Support us! We are indie developers!


This site is made by just two indie developers on a laptop doing marketing, support and development! Read more about the story.

Become a Premium Member ($3/month or $30/year) and get exclusive features!

Become Premium

Don't want to be a Premium member but still want to support us?

Make a small donation by buying us coffee ($5) or help with server cost ($10)

Donate via Paypal

Or Donate anonymously using crypto!

Ethereum

0xfe58350B80634f60Fa6Dc149a72b4DFbc17D341E copy

Bitcoin

3ATGMxNzCUFzxpMCHL5sWSt4DVtS8UqXpi copy

Thank you for your support!

:(