by Claudia Gutierrez and Simrit (Simi) Warring Less than 12 hours after our microbiology final exam, we boarded a plane for Costa Rica. We spent a week at the rural Hospital William Allen de Turrialba, which serves local residents and an indigenous Indian population, the Cabécar tribes. Day 1: We were greeted in the pediatric unit by a child recovering from cutaneous leishmaniasis. The next patient we met was recovering from Ascaris lumbercoides so far progressed that the child had had vomiting with worms being excreted from the nose and mouth. The nurse told us the story, “As soon as the child started throwing up, I had to jump forward to grab the worms one by one as fast as I could from the child’s mouth so he wouldn’t choke.” Day 2: That morning we toured the microbiology lab. It was an incredible mix of modern technology and practicality. They had fume hoods, automated PCR machines, and microscopes similar to those at Mayo, but had a cart full of stool samples that patients had collected in cleaned out Gerber food jars - talk about being resourceful.

The Medical School is going through many changes this year: A new school dean was named this Spring, Fredric Meyer, M.D., the interviews for ...

by Jeremie Oliver “It’s going to be a good day today,” were the words of encouragement from our physician leader, Dr. Bachman. I distinctly remember standing at the triage station of our clinic, assembled within a local schoolhouse building, gazing in awe at the hundreds of Nicaraguans grasping the fence with desperation in their faces. Our job was to provide the highest quality, patient-centered medical attention to each and every one of them. Feelings of personal desperation began to absorb me, sensing my own inadequacy in this dire situation. After all, what significant difference could an untrained, first-year medical student really contribute to these people in need? How was I going to effectively communicate with them, with a limited capacity to speak their native language? And communicating with them, how would I be able to convey to them a significant message to better their health and personal well-being?

During our second year of medical school, students participate in a course called ‘Advanced Doctoring’. The name was at first surprising to me, because as ...

Mayo is one of the most exciting places I have ever been. The novelty of walking through the Peace Plaza staring into the eyes of the Gonda Building still, months later, hasn’t gotten old. Every day I’m inspired. But aside from the beautiful architecture, art, and design that surrounds us here in Rochester, the best part is certainly the people. The consultants (i.e., attending physicians) here are accessible, incredibly accomplished, and passionate about their work and their patients. But what I’ve found, thus far, is that this is true for consultants who have done any piece of their training at Mayo. Selectives are a beautiful part of the Mayo Medical School curriculum. They are especially great because you can tailor each selective to wherever in the world you want to be. For my first selective, I wanted to go home to Michigan, where all of my family lives, but I still wanted the Mayo experience. So I took advantage of the Mayo Medical School Alumni Association Directory, which includes individuals who have done any training at Mayo or who have worked at Mayo for at least one year. I discovered there were 218 individuals in Michigan. There were consultants that specialized in Transplant Surgery, Abdominal Imaging, Infectious Disease; the options were endless. I settled on neurosurgery in Traverse City, Michigan and decided to just throw an email out into the interwebs just to see what would happen.  My first choice consultant responded.

Medical school is stressful; there is no way around this blatant fact. You had the college thing perfected, otherwise you would not have gotten into medical school. Then 50% of you find yourself somewhere you have never been… below average in your classes. In addition to class, life happens and your time stretches even thinner at a time when you feel like you could use a clone. You may live a $200 plane ride away from family and friends and struggle to relate and keep in touch. When many people around you in your eyes are effortlessly excelling, it is hard not to feel like a failure.  This can make you feel isolated and question whether you belong in medical school or should even become a doctor.

Out of the 100+ patients I have seen and helped manage over the course of this month, the one I will remember most was not ...

by Vid Yogeswaran When I was in the Tabo monastery in the Himalayas this past summer, I had this moment of clarity. I could see ...

by Jessica Saw I’ve always valued close relationships with faculty. Some people think getting invited to a professor’s house for dinner is downright awkward ...

by Amelia Van Handel As I left my parked car behind and started running along the beach, my shoes and socks were instantly filled ...

Jessie* looked like something out of a textbook: bone thin arms, legs puffy with edema, perfectly round stomach, glazed over eyes. As the physician quizzed me on the appropriate treatment for malnutrition, Jessie barely reacted. He looked like the stereotypical “starving African child” I’d seen on ads for this non-profit or that charity fund more times than I could count. But he was right in front of me now—my patient. As we talked with his grandma, the story of his five short years took shape: his mom had left, his step-mom neglected him, and his dad was working too much to care for him. He had been passed around until he ended up in front of me, and finally he was being cared for. Over the next few days, Jessie came alive. His eyes were brighter, he looked at me (the “muzungu”, or white person) with the mix of interest and hesitancy the other children did, and he ate with vigor. A few days of cheap treatment was bringing the dead back to life before my eyes. He was getting back his personality, and with it, a second chance at life.

Her hair was like black licorice, cold, curled, and still. Her lips, though dry and cracking, were full and puckered like a peach. She had the bone structure of an African goddess, one girls would kill for nowadays. Her nose, though slim and straight had a slight bend in the middle, only adding to the magnificence of her beauty. Detach yourself, detach yourself, I told myself, She’s not human anymore. She’s a corpse. Her long, slender limbs hung awkwardly from the anatomy lab table. Her wrinkled, dark brown skin reminded me of a sun-ripened raisin, especially around her eyes and mouth. She had clearly been a smiler. As I wondered what color eyes were hiding behind her thin, delicate eyelids embedded with tiny withered folds of skin, I resisted the urge to lift one to see. Standing stone still, I stared back at the body I would soon be working on, and read the nametag—“Dorothy Hollins, teacher, 85.”* She reminded me of my grandmother. Detach yourself, I heard the back of my mind tell me once again. Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I began to wonder what her life had been like. How many times had she brushed her wily curls, commanding them to lay down with every stroke as each tendril fought against it like little baby snakes fighting to gain the upper hand? Detach yourself. What was it about her heart that made her smile so much that even in death, the slight left crook of her lips with the surrounding smile lines betrayed any frown she may have had while living? I wondered if it was any bigger than other corpses I had seen. How many of her students had been enlightened by her brain, with its numerous nerve connections filled with memories, losses, and happiness, the one I knew I would end up dissecting soon? Detach yourself.