The first two years of medical school come down to identifying an answer. The answer.
It’s always nestled among five choices, at the bottom of a carefully constructed paragraph that includes all the information and buzz words we need.
Being a great first or second year student becomes of game of plodding through the cycle of memorization and regurgitation. Once we convince ourselves we’ve thought our way to the certainty that doesn’t actually exist in clinical medicine, we get to move on.
We learn to see medicine as a series of singular issues that require nothing more than facts and textbooks. We come to believe that pure intellect will let us rip through patient problems with accuracy and efficiency.
Fortunately, medicine is an intricate, ongoing dance between science and compassion, in which we must not only memorize, diagnose, and treat, but also listen, connect and unpack.
Clinical care that brings patients and physicians together does not stem from narrowing down answer choices and recognizing patient presentation patterns. It unfolds out of recognizing the limitations of certainty and the importance human-to-human trust in healing the body and the soul.
We all have the choice to stop playing the game of certainty. To do less fact regurgitation and more patient engagement. If we do that, we might get a little closer to being the kind of doctor we thought we would be when we first got our crisp, overly starched white coats.
One who refuses to rest on the appeal of being right and instead, focuses on doing right. One who constantly circles back to the uncomfortable questions of “Am I sure about this?”, “What am I missing?”, and “Are we meeting your priorities in your treatment?”
Once we hit the requisite threshold of facts, making the move from good to great depends less on what we know, and more on how often we choose to show up with the presence, attention and humility that keeps us from ever being certain, but always being curious.