A Piece of My Mind (Jama & Archives Journals) by The Journal of the American Medical Association Jama,

By The Journal of the American Medical Association Jama, Roxanne K. Young

Reflections and insights on overall healthiness, ailment, and healingNow in paperback for the 1st time, a bit of My brain brings jointly revealing own essays that first seemed within the magazine of the yankee scientific organization (JAMA). those engrossing, relocating vignettes--written by means of physicians, sufferers, relatives, scientific scholars, and others--offer a different glimpse into the standard stories and relationships within the scientific world.Baring their souls and starting their hearts, the authors proportion their so much own moments, tales, and observations. you will listen from the intern who couldn't cover her feelings, incomes reprimand from her supervisors yet appreciation from her sufferers . . . meet an alcoholic whose indomitable spirit helped her defy all of the odds . . . adventure the heartbreaking comedy of a Monday morning HIV health center . . . be encouraged through the oncology social employee who chanced on a brand new love of lifestyles in the course of her personal fight with breast melanoma . . . and research from the doctor who learned that by way of witnessing her sufferers' braveness she turned a greater physician.Compelling, touching, and every now and then funny, a section of My brain bargains a deeper figuring out of physicians, sufferers, medication, and the easy human act of assisting one other person."These tales, dependent in technological know-how, are transmitted to readers . . . after filtering via a human center . . . constantly succeeds in bridging technological know-how and the humanities."--William H. Foege, MD, Emory collage

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Extra resources for A Piece of My Mind (Jama & Archives Journals)

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I glanced at the ECG monitor and saw only a flat line. We tried everything to revive him, but it was useless. I left the ER, exhausted, and suddenly realizing that Phil’s mother was still on her way to the hospital. How could I tell her that her son had died? A few minutes later she walked up to me at the nurses’ station. I knew immediately that she understood what had happened by the stricken look on my face. “I’m so sorry. Phil’s gone,” I said. ” “Doctor, I know you loved my baby, and he knew it too.

Her daughters are here—Ah, at last, a confirmation of those shreds of flowered cloth, this WAS a person after all. Daughters. Somewhere in a hallway are daughters waiting to hear that their mother is dead, maybe not knowing yet what all but the greenest of us (meaning me—but even I knew) have known from the beginning, that this exercise in resuscitation is a futile one. Daughters who will weep and grieve and someday heal. Someone, mercifully, closes the door. ” I nod, put on gloves (one tears, as I pull it on), step in.

When did the leg start to . . ) . . ” I asked as I put the angiocath in. She pulled away slightly. I wasn’t getting any blood return. I retreated and tried to advance the catheter again. Nothing. ” Her eyes were fixed on her hand as I kept poking. She continued with her story: she had lost 15 pounds over the past month and had found a lump in her right axilla. Three days later her left calf had become swollen and red. (There we go—a flash of blood in the IV. Now advance the catheter. Damn. ” “Oh really?

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