Cathy
The making of a doctor takes thousands of small steps, but some are unforgettable. Cathy became a monument in my life. My residency in pediatrics occurred in a 2200-bed colossus which included a 9-story building just for kids. The patients were from all over and often had rare diseases. (Professors would often say, “When you hear hoofbeats don’t think of zebras” – but Columbia-Presbyterian was where zebras wound up. In those days we had no CT scans or MRI’s, no transplants and few wonder drugs. We worked 90-hour weeks under military-like pressure.
Cathy was 8 and I was perhaps her 30th resident and this was her umpteenth admission. Every month she’d patiently and bravely teach her new physician how and where to start her IV’s and explain what her procedures and drugs were for. As a little girl, Cathy frequently ran 105 fevers. She lived way out on Long Island and her doctor just gave her the latest antibiotic without seeking a diagnosis. Her grandmother finally became fed up and brought her by train to New York. On her first admission she was found to have almost total destruction of both kidneys from repeated infection. She quickly understood her prognosis, but she never complained, never lost the hope and trust in her big blue eyes, and every young doctor loved her.
One day half way through my residency I heard the dreaded “Code Blue”. When I arrived on scene Cathy’s frail body was being pounded on by about two dozen medical people. She had died in the elevator on the way to X-ray. I was told rather coldly by a senior resident, “You have to pronounce her dead; she’s your patient.” I could not, and did not.
I spent the next two hours in my room, crying and looking for strength to go on. I found it in the thirty other patients on the ward needing me, and in the dedication I swore to Cathy’s memory that there would never be a child in my care lost because of my lack of diligence. Every time I order a urine test I think of her. Not again – not on MY watch!