It was a blistering summer day in Phoenix, Arizona, and the sweltering heat was already at full blast when I walked into Maricopa Medical Center for my first day as an intern in 1985. Freshly minted, bright-eyed, and perhaps a tad too optimistic, I was initially assigned to the emergency room, the heart of controlled chaos. I was ready to save lives and make a difference.
Barely an hour into my shift, a patient staggered in with a deep gash above his left forehead. The triage nurse, a seasoned veteran who probably sutured wounds in her sleep, pointed at me and said, “You’re up, Doc.” The adrenaline surged. The old adage, “see one, do one, teach one,” echoed in my mind. Problem was, I had never seen one or done one. But how hard could it be?
With shaky hands, I approached the patient, who looked at me with a mix of trust and impending regret. I cleaned the wound first and then administered local anesthesia. As I did this, I couldn’t help but notice the blood on my scrubs, which reminded me of dramatic scenes from TV medical shows. Now, I was living it. I picked up the needle, and, summoning all my courage and some misguided confidence, began to suture. In my mind, I was a maestro, weaving medical magic. In reality, well, I would soon learn the harsh truth.
Ten days later, the same patient returned for suture removal. My heart sank when my attending, Dr. Grim (a nickname earned not just for his stern demeanor but also for his penchant for grim diagnoses), spotted him and grabbed me. His face turned a shade of red I didn’t think was medically possible without immediate intervention.
“Who the hell did this?” he barked.
“Uh, that would be me,” I squeaked.
Dr. Grim stared at the patient’s forehead, then back at me. “I’ve seen butts sewn up better than this!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the ER. And, as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. My suturing job looked like a toddler’s attempt at cross-stitching.
The patient, to his credit, tried to reassure me with a pained smile. “Hey, it’s still holding together, right?”
But I knew better. I vowed right then and there to improve. I wasn’t going to be the intern who turned people’s foreheads into Picasso paintings. I wondered how I would survive this internship, let alone thrive. I made a mental note to practice more, perhaps on oranges or, if desperate, my own old socks.
In the weeks that followed, I spent every spare moment honing my suturing skills. I practiced on anything I could find— oranges, bananas, foam pads, even the occasional chicken breast. My confidence grew with each stitch, and slowly, I began to see improvement. The lines became straighter, the knots tighter. I sought feedback from my colleagues and watched many instructional videos. My dedication did not go unnoticed. Dr. Grim, who had been my harshest critic, began to acknowledge my progress with curt nods and gruff comments that I took as compliments.
One particularly hectic night, I was once again faced with a challenging suture job. This time, a young boy had cut his leg open after a fall. His mother looked at me with tear-filled eyes, silently pleading for help. As I worked on the boy’s wound, I could feel the pressure, but I also felt a new sense of calm. My hands were steadier, my movements more assured. When I finished, the sutures were neat and clean. The relief on the mother’s face was the affirmation I needed.
That night, something shifted inside me. I realized that medicine was not just about technical skills; it was about human connections, about the trust patients place in their doctors, and the responsibility that comes with it. My initial blunder had taught me humility and perseverance, but more importantly, it had instilled in me a deep sense of compassion and commitment.
As my internship progressed, I encountered numerous other challenges that tested my resolve. There were long nights, difficult cases, and moments of doubt. But each experience, whether good or bad, contributed to my growth. I learned to manage my time better, to prioritize tasks under pressure, and to communicate effectively with patients and their families. The fast pace and unpredictable nature of the emergency room and medical ward became my training ground, shaping me into a more competent and compassionate doctor.
One particularly memorable case involved an elderly woman who had collapsed at home and was brought in by ambulance. Her condition was critical, and the team worked frantically to stabilize her. I assisted with the intubation and monitored her vitals. Despite our efforts, she passed away. It was my first experience with death as a doctor, and it hit me hard. I spoke with her family, offering my condolences and answering their questions as best I could. Their grief was palpable, and I felt a profound sense of responsibility. This experience reinforced my commitment to my patients, not just as a doctor, but as a fellow human being.
By the end of my internship, I had transformed from a nervous, inexperienced intern into a confident, skilled physician. My initial failure with the sutures had set the stage for this transformation. It taught me the importance of resilience, of learning from mistakes, and of continuously striving to improve. These lessons became the foundation of my medical career.
Looking back, that blistering summer day in Phoenix marked the beginning of a journey that would shape my future in ways I could never have imagined. The challenges I faced at Maricopa Medical Center prepared me for the complexities of medical practice and instilled in me a lifelong commitment to excellence and compassionate care. Today, as I mentor new physicians, I share my story with them, hoping to inspire them to embrace their own journeys with the same determination and humility that guided me. And perhaps, one day, they will pass on these lessons to a new generation of doctors, continuing the cycle of learning and growth that defines the medical profession.