Three male, third-year medical students entered seven weeks of Internal Medicine rotation, and they were prepared to get a truckload of needy and complicated patients on day one. They got them. They were not prepared for such an apocalyptic entry into 1984.The memory snapshot carries this caption: “Nightmare Team. Discouraging words abound; encouraging words are not to be found.” They found themselves working like slaves and adjusting to chronic sleep deprivation. The red pen was weaponized. Every comprehensive history and physical, each several pages long, would be returned with a cacophony of caustic comments around the margins. Was there any hope?
After three call nights,one decided that he had had enough, and quit medical school, leaving more work for the remaining two. A second would have to repeat the third year of medical school, which was hardly a desirable outcome. The third had one thing going for him. Only one.
As usual, he had done pretty well on the written exam. So, he – I – was given an assignment on the weekend before the fourth year, and then was given the thumbs up to enter the fourth year with most of the rest of my classmates, 40 years ago.
