Intrinsic to the idea of reincarnation is the concept of being born anew on a different plane of existence. It is not simply living another life, but ultimately the goal is to learn something from what had happened before and use this in the next life.
Part of medical school is remaking yourself on a different plane of existence, this time on a different social plane. As a doctor, you are expected to transcend social niceties because it suddenly is your job to worry about someone you've never met's sexual history and practice; suddenly you are remiss if you do not inquire into drug use or marital status or infections previously endured. In a way, this is why we need the socialization and the standards of professionalism written into our curricula: our teachers are there for us to model ourselves after, so that we can learn to properly guard this trust given us by virtue of our position, by virtue of our profession.
There are few other relationships held as sacrosanct as that between a physician and her patient; those that come to mind are lawyer-client and parishioner-priest. In the same way, the physician guards secrets and knowledge and intimacies that even couples do not share with one another.
This was particularly on my mind last week--the things that must remain unspoken after the visit is over, after the examination. In some ways, this is a paradox: the physician should keep careful notes of what she observed, what the patient said, how the patient felt, what findings can be cobbled together to support a diagnosis of the etiology of the complaint. At the same time, however, for the nascent physician--more specifically, the medical student--there are things which are not considered.
I was shadowing a geriatrician last week, and a patient came in complaining of persistent diarrhea. The doctor examined the patient in many typical ways, but he also decided to examine the woman's rectum. He put on a pair of gloves and used a little lubricant to test for the tone of the woman's sphincter, to make sure there was no damage there. He then told me to put on a glove so that I, too, could examine the woman.
Part of medical school is remaking yourself on a different plane of existence, this time on a different social plane. As a doctor, you are expected to transcend social niceties because it suddenly is your job to worry about someone you've never met's sexual history and practice; suddenly you are remiss if you do not inquire into drug use or marital status or infections previously endured. In a way, this is why we need the socialization and the standards of professionalism written into our curricula: our teachers are there for us to model ourselves after, so that we can learn to properly guard this trust given us by virtue of our position, by virtue of our profession.
There are few other relationships held as sacrosanct as that between a physician and her patient; those that come to mind are lawyer-client and parishioner-priest. In the same way, the physician guards secrets and knowledge and intimacies that even couples do not share with one another.
This was particularly on my mind last week--the things that must remain unspoken after the visit is over, after the examination. In some ways, this is a paradox: the physician should keep careful notes of what she observed, what the patient said, how the patient felt, what findings can be cobbled together to support a diagnosis of the etiology of the complaint. At the same time, however, for the nascent physician--more specifically, the medical student--there are things which are not considered.
I was shadowing a geriatrician last week, and a patient came in complaining of persistent diarrhea. The doctor examined the patient in many typical ways, but he also decided to examine the woman's rectum. He put on a pair of gloves and used a little lubricant to test for the tone of the woman's sphincter, to make sure there was no damage there. He then told me to put on a glove so that I, too, could examine the woman.
