Now that completion of residency is fast approaching, I am asked regularly what I plan to do when I become a Real Doctor on July 1. It feels like it wasn’t so long ago I was trying to decide if I should even go to medical school, then later, if I should go into psychiatry, family medicine, or emergency medicine. And here I am at another decision point, another of the regular, 4-year milestones in my journey to full physicianhood.
Dr. Ashley Stone
A surprising thing happened to me during my psychiatry training: I fell in love with acute care. Instead of outpatient care, I preferred the longer hours with patients who insist they are Jesus Christ, believe deeply they are being actively pursued by the FBI, and sometimes eat their own feces. I was in awe of the remarkable capacity of the human brain to convince a graduate-school educated man with bipolar disorder that it is acceptable to call in bomb threats to a hospital. To lead a patient on a conservatorship to believe that I am not a doctor but, instead, a seamstress or leave socks full of feces as presents for Santa Claus (lots of feces in inpatient psychiatry). To believe their spouses are not humans or hear voices telling them they should jump off a bridge, sustaining near-lethal injuries. I was hooked.
Psychiatry as a field is not for those requiring instant gratification. Other than Ativan challenges and the remarkably quick response some patients have to ECT, outcomes of our treatments are usually modest, and they take time. We often delude ourselves into thinking that bumping a patient’s fluoxetine from 10 mg to 20 mg will be The Thing that changes a patient’s life. We address our own sense of helplessness as much as that of our patients, who are desperate for something, for someone, to do something that will alter the course of their lives.
Of course, what I can offer my patients usually falls short of their lofty expectations of my prowess. I offer them compassion, validation, empathy. I offer them medications for which we usually have meager data and meager results. I cannot find them shelter but for a few nights, perhaps a week. I rarely, in settings in which primary diagnoses of substance use and personality disorders are forbidden by insurance companies, can help them with their addiction to methamphetamine. I cannot cure their maladaptive characterological pathology stemming from childhood attachment trauma. To address my own sense of failure as a healer, I resort to the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, providing their choice of juice box, more blankets. I slow-roll their discharges overnight so that they can stay in the ER hallway instead of spending the night outside in the rare Southern California rain.
In my 3rd year of residency, we were thrown into a pandemic. I felt both terrified of getting COVID-19 in the hospital and inadequate as a physician. I did not want to be intubating patients, but even more, I dreaded the potential “psychiatry-friendly” assignment of calling the family members of those who had perished from the disease. Rumors circulated that certain versions of surge planning had the inpatient psychiatry unit transitioned to a COVID unit and psychiatry residents “redeployed” to cover medicine floors. Fortunately, we did not have to (or have not yet had to) endure this apocalyptic episode of worst-case scenario. I remained a psychiatrist-in-training, seeing occasional COVID patients but with full personal protective equipment and the ability to maintain some physical distance to complete my examinations. Coming home to my apartment building in scrubs, now acceptable attire on inpatient units – it always should have been since, as we have established, our units are filled with feces – I early on felt like a leper. Later on, I was treated with dignity and respect, like a hero.
My position as a non–frontline-physician was personally challenging. I wanted to help, felt like I should and could help. I am a helper-in-recovery who has spent years learning to achieve a balance of service and loyalty to others and my own desires. The initial guilt I felt at feeling appreciated during the nightly celebration of health care workers downtown ultimately dissipated. I was no hero, nor did I claim to be one. I made peace with my pandemic hobbies of sourdough bread-baking, Moscow mule-making, jigsaw-puzzling, and, briefly, running (before a calcaneal stress fracture reminded me that I am not built for land exercise). I went to work; I came home. My cat was happy.
Then, in rapid succession, vaccines were approved and distributed. My hospital had partnered with the county to administer them at a new superstation, and they were in desperate need of licensed humans to be vaccinators. They cared not that I had given very few (n = 3) injections and only during medical school. I watched the YouTube videos on the Z-track technique for IMs, learned about needle gauges, and went off to the baseball stadium.
I loved this new gig, disproportionately. The 8+ hours flew by, 100 vaccines given to occupants of cars who had eagerly waited hours for the privilege of being vaccinated by an almost-psychiatrist. It was not the technical expertise of sticking a needle into someone’s arm that gave me a dopamine rush, nor the microstress of preparing the syringes with a flimsy needle and a slight caffeine-induced tremor while trying to flick air bubbles out of the syringe without dropping the precious vaccine vial. It was not the travel nurse asking me why anyone – especially an overworked resident – would volunteer to do this for free, while she and others were making “stupid amounts of money” to do the same job.
What drove me to keep volunteering for no pay, only Cheez-Its available as sustenance, minimal gratitude from my employer, long hours on my feet doing a task that was rote and at which I probably would never completely excel? On my second shift, I realized why I found it so gratifying to be a vaccinator: There was a perfect 1:1 correspondence in what patients wanted at that moment and in what I had to offer them. They did not want me to fix their lives, secure them housing, or go back in time and remove them from abusive homes so they could grow up to be more functional, happier adults. They merely wanted a shot. They were profusely grateful, hopeful that this was the Beginning of the End. Nobody spat on me; nobody called me obscene names. Nobody was upset with me for involuntarily holding them against their will. My services were welcome, appreciated. I had lovely, superficial conversations with dozens of people. I felt connected to strangers in a way that has been sorely lacking since March 2020. Understandably mistaken for a nurse throughout the day, I felt more like a bona fide physician than I had in over a year.
I know the adrenaline rush will fade, that volunteer-vaccinating in my free time will eventually become less exciting to me. I know I won’t be able to convince my colleagues indefinitely that volunteering together is a great, institution-sanctioned bonding opportunity. I know the initial enthusiasm over vaccine distribution will fade as the pandemic continues to transform our everyday lives and threaten the health of millions, the economy, and the sanctity of normal human interactions. The gratitude and hopefulness may well be replaced with frustration over waiting hours in a car to get an injection from a psychiatrist, with fear that this promised panacea may not restore normalcy anytime soon. But right now, 11 months into a pandemic that has left our profession exhausted and jaded, the coprophilia and catatonia have temporarily lost their allure. So, I’m adding “vaccinator” to my list of pandemic hobbies.
Dr. Stone is a chief resident in psychiatry at the University of California, San Diego. Before deciding to become a physician, she obtained a master’s degree in public health and worked in health policy research studying empathy and patient-doctor interactions. She has a passion for public psychiatry and acute care, and she dabbles in physician wellness, medical education, and the interface of psychiatry and primary care. Dr. Stone has no disclosures.