“Don’t get sick in July!” We’ve all heard patients and family members say this – part declaration, part wishful thinking – in reference to the perceived summertime risks of teaching hospitals. When I hear it, I usually respond with comforting bromides like “robust supervision” and “cream of the crop.” But deep down, if I had the choice of entering a teaching hospital in July and April, I’d choose the latter.
This preference comes partly from my recollections of my own training experience. The day before I began my residency at UCSF, my entire intern class gathered to meet our new bosses. We were on pins and needles – laughing at jokes that weren’t really funny, suspiciously eyeing our colleagues, whose admission to the program (unlike our own) could not be explained by clerical error. The chief of service, Greg Fitz, a brilliant gastroenterologist with a disarming “aw shucks” manner and a Southern drawl (he’s now Dean at UT Southwestern), stood to address us.
“I know you’re all nervous,” he said, catching our collective mental drift. “But don’t worry. If we can turn bread mold into penicillin, we can turn you guys into doctors.”
I was only partly reassured.
The next day, I began my internship on the wards at San Francisco General Hospital. I picked up the service from a graduating intern. His sign out to me was pithy. “Sucker!” he shouted gleefully, as he jammed his beeper into my abdomen like a football. Panicked, I managed to survive my first few weeks on the wards without killing any patients.