Advice for interns still resonates

The sage, bearded, middle-aged doctor stood at the lectern in the auditorium in front of the young, eager, restless interns who were ready to begin their first day of training post medical school. Had smartphones existed at the time, we would have held ours high, recording the speech that would launch us into our careers.

"I have only one bit of advice: Drink lots of water."

That’s it? No words of encouragement like, Go out there and save lives? Study hard? Don’t kill anyone?

Sometimes the simplest advice is the best advice.

Being an intern is like running a marathon. You don’t have time to eat. You don’t have time to sleep. You’re tired all the time. And you feel like you’re stuck at Heartbreak Hill – will this nightmare ever end? So my advice to interns is the same – drink lots of water, and you will make it to the finish line. Take care of yourself, because you won’t be able to help others if your basic needs are not met. And when you are pushed to the limit, sometimes you have to step back and laugh at life’s absurdities.

The hospital where I spent endless days and nights had a beautiful exterior, its white neo-Gothic structure towering over the East River in Manhattan. The inside was another story – it was downright rundown. This was 25 years ago, and I imagine it has gone through a major renovation since that time.

The patients’ rooms had air conditioning units, but the hallways and nurses stations were like furnaces. I thought I was in Dante’s Inferno. My internship began in July, so I drank lots of water. A bit of advice: Never get sick in July when the interns are starting.

I didn’t kill anyone those 2 months on the internal medicine unit, and I was relieved to go to another hospital nearby to work on the neurology unit. At least there was central air conditioning. But the nicer environment did not make up for a toxic atmosphere. The female nurses seemed to have an allergy to the female interns, because when we approached to ask for help they would run to the open arms of the male interns.

Worse yet, a well-known neurologist yelled at me loud and long, following me down the hallway, waving his arms, his comb-over coming undone. He was the doctor in charge on the unit, and I had respectfully brought up the idea of a change in treatment plan, a less medically aggressive and more palliative approach for a suffering patient with end-stage cancer. This doctor carried on as if I were some kind of serial killer instead of a caring doctor.

The unit was so depressing that I would read "Anna Karenina" to cheer myself up.

The next 6 months of training were heavenly in comparison because I was working on medical-psychiatric units in a freestanding psychiatric hospital in Westchester County, N.Y. This hospital would provide my 3-year psychiatry residency training after internship. Frederick Law Olmsted, the architect of Central Park, had designed the hospital’s grounds, which had rolling hills with walking trails lined by beautiful oak, maple, and sycamore trees.

The geriatric psychiatric unit was interesting and tough – we treated many patients with Parkinson’s disease and dementia. One time, in a meeting with a supervising psychiatrist in her office, I cried because the patients reminded me of my grandparents, who had dementia. The psychiatrist glared at me after this demonstration of countertransference with a response that could only be called disgust and hate. I turned off the tears and my emotions as well. And I drank a lot of water.

I spent my last 2 months back in Manhattan doing internal medicine. By then the interns and residents were complete burnouts and were especially foul tempered. One of the interns kicked his foot through a glass door after being tormented by a resident. We had had enough.

Despite drinking water, I was worn down and developed a 103° fever. I did not come into work for a day or two. This was unacceptable. The resident thought I was faking the fever, and I had to get a doctor’s note to document my illness.

I remember the last day of internship. It was one of the best days of my life. Water became my friend again. On my way to the basement of the hospital to turn in my beeper – the ugly black box that was attached to my pants and went off at all hours day and night – I made a stop at the ladies room. I pulled down my pants and the beeper fell into the toilet. The beeper sizzled and then was silent. I swear it was an accident, but I did laugh out loud.

I fished out the beeper and attempted to dry it off with a paper towel, but it kept dripping water. I think I killed it.

I brought the beeper to a clerk, and she gave me a nasty look like it was not the first time this had happened. Then I walked out of the hospital on a beautiful summer day and strolled down the lovely avenue on my way to a celebratory dinner with my husband, who had finished his internship as well. And I drank lots of water.

Dr. Morris is a psychiatrist at the University of Florida Counseling and Wellness Center in Gainesville and has provided clinical care to University of Florida students for the last 20 years. Her areas of specialty include depression, eating disorders, and anxiety disorders.

The sage, bearded, middle-aged doctor stood at the lectern in the auditorium in front of the young, eager, restless interns who were ready to begin their first day of training post medical school. Had smartphones existed at the time, we would have held ours high, recording the speech that would launch us into our careers.

"I have only one bit of advice: Drink lots of water."

That’s it? No words of encouragement like, Go out there and save lives? Study hard? Don’t kill anyone?

Sometimes the simplest advice is the best advice.

Being an intern is like running a marathon. You don’t have time to eat. You don’t have time to sleep. You’re tired all the time. And you feel like you’re stuck at Heartbreak Hill – will this nightmare ever end? So my advice to interns is the same – drink lots of water, and you will make it to the finish line. Take care of yourself, because you won’t be able to help others if your basic needs are not met. And when you are pushed to the limit, sometimes you have to step back and laugh at life’s absurdities.

The hospital where I spent endless days and nights had a beautiful exterior, its white neo-Gothic structure towering over the East River in Manhattan. The inside was another story – it was downright rundown. This was 25 years ago, and I imagine it has gone through a major renovation since that time.

The patients’ rooms had air conditioning units, but the hallways and nurses stations were like furnaces. I thought I was in Dante’s Inferno. My internship began in July, so I drank lots of water. A bit of advice: Never get sick in July when the interns are starting.

I didn’t kill anyone those 2 months on the internal medicine unit, and I was relieved to go to another hospital nearby to work on the neurology unit. At least there was central air conditioning. But the nicer environment did not make up for a toxic atmosphere. The female nurses seemed to have an allergy to the female interns, because when we approached to ask for help they would run to the open arms of the male interns.

Worse yet, a well-known neurologist yelled at me loud and long, following me down the hallway, waving his arms, his comb-over coming undone. He was the doctor in charge on the unit, and I had respectfully brought up the idea of a change in treatment plan, a less medically aggressive and more palliative approach for a suffering patient with end-stage cancer. This doctor carried on as if I were some kind of serial killer instead of a caring doctor.

The unit was so depressing that I would read "Anna Karenina" to cheer myself up.

The next 6 months of training were heavenly in comparison because I was working on medical-psychiatric units in a freestanding psychiatric hospital in Westchester County, N.Y. This hospital would provide my 3-year psychiatry residency training after internship. Frederick Law Olmsted, the architect of Central Park, had designed the hospital’s grounds, which had rolling hills with walking trails lined by beautiful oak, maple, and sycamore trees.

The geriatric psychiatric unit was interesting and tough – we treated many patients with Parkinson’s disease and dementia. One time, in a meeting with a supervising psychiatrist in her office, I cried because the patients reminded me of my grandparents, who had dementia. The psychiatrist glared at me after this demonstration of countertransference with a response that could only be called disgust and hate. I turned off the tears and my emotions as well. And I drank a lot of water.

I spent my last 2 months back in Manhattan doing internal medicine. By then the interns and residents were complete burnouts and were especially foul tempered. One of the interns kicked his foot through a glass door after being tormented by a resident. We had had enough.

Despite drinking water, I was worn down and developed a 103° fever. I did not come into work for a day or two. This was unacceptable. The resident thought I was faking the fever, and I had to get a doctor’s note to document my illness.

I remember the last day of internship. It was one of the best days of my life. Water became my friend again. On my way to the basement of the hospital to turn in my beeper – the ugly black box that was attached to my pants and went off at all hours day and night – I made a stop at the ladies room. I pulled down my pants and the beeper fell into the toilet. The beeper sizzled and then was silent. I swear it was an accident, but I did laugh out loud.

I fished out the beeper and attempted to dry it off with a paper towel, but it kept dripping water. I think I killed it.

I brought the beeper to a clerk, and she gave me a nasty look like it was not the first time this had happened. Then I walked out of the hospital on a beautiful summer day and strolled down the lovely avenue on my way to a celebratory dinner with my husband, who had finished his internship as well. And I drank lots of water.

Dr. Morris is a psychiatrist at the University of Florida Counseling and Wellness Center in Gainesville and has provided clinical care to University of Florida students for the last 20 years. Her areas of specialty include depression, eating disorders, and anxiety disorders.

The sage, bearded, middle-aged doctor stood at the lectern in the auditorium in front of the young, eager, restless interns who were ready to begin their first day of training post medical school. Had smartphones existed at the time, we would have held ours high, recording the speech that would launch us into our careers.

"I have only one bit of advice: Drink lots of water."

That’s it? No words of encouragement like, Go out there and save lives? Study hard? Don’t kill anyone?

Sometimes the simplest advice is the best advice.

Being an intern is like running a marathon. You don’t have time to eat. You don’t have time to sleep. You’re tired all the time. And you feel like you’re stuck at Heartbreak Hill – will this nightmare ever end? So my advice to interns is the same – drink lots of water, and you will make it to the finish line. Take care of yourself, because you won’t be able to help others if your basic needs are not met. And when you are pushed to the limit, sometimes you have to step back and laugh at life’s absurdities.

The hospital where I spent endless days and nights had a beautiful exterior, its white neo-Gothic structure towering over the East River in Manhattan. The inside was another story – it was downright rundown. This was 25 years ago, and I imagine it has gone through a major renovation since that time.

The patients’ rooms had air conditioning units, but the hallways and nurses stations were like furnaces. I thought I was in Dante’s Inferno. My internship began in July, so I drank lots of water. A bit of advice: Never get sick in July when the interns are starting.

I didn’t kill anyone those 2 months on the internal medicine unit, and I was relieved to go to another hospital nearby to work on the neurology unit. At least there was central air conditioning. But the nicer environment did not make up for a toxic atmosphere. The female nurses seemed to have an allergy to the female interns, because when we approached to ask for help they would run to the open arms of the male interns.

Worse yet, a well-known neurologist yelled at me loud and long, following me down the hallway, waving his arms, his comb-over coming undone. He was the doctor in charge on the unit, and I had respectfully brought up the idea of a change in treatment plan, a less medically aggressive and more palliative approach for a suffering patient with end-stage cancer. This doctor carried on as if I were some kind of serial killer instead of a caring doctor.

The unit was so depressing that I would read "Anna Karenina" to cheer myself up.

The next 6 months of training were heavenly in comparison because I was working on medical-psychiatric units in a freestanding psychiatric hospital in Westchester County, N.Y. This hospital would provide my 3-year psychiatry residency training after internship. Frederick Law Olmsted, the architect of Central Park, had designed the hospital’s grounds, which had rolling hills with walking trails lined by beautiful oak, maple, and sycamore trees.

The geriatric psychiatric unit was interesting and tough – we treated many patients with Parkinson’s disease and dementia. One time, in a meeting with a supervising psychiatrist in her office, I cried because the patients reminded me of my grandparents, who had dementia. The psychiatrist glared at me after this demonstration of countertransference with a response that could only be called disgust and hate. I turned off the tears and my emotions as well. And I drank a lot of water.

I spent my last 2 months back in Manhattan doing internal medicine. By then the interns and residents were complete burnouts and were especially foul tempered. One of the interns kicked his foot through a glass door after being tormented by a resident. We had had enough.

Despite drinking water, I was worn down and developed a 103° fever. I did not come into work for a day or two. This was unacceptable. The resident thought I was faking the fever, and I had to get a doctor’s note to document my illness.

I remember the last day of internship. It was one of the best days of my life. Water became my friend again. On my way to the basement of the hospital to turn in my beeper – the ugly black box that was attached to my pants and went off at all hours day and night – I made a stop at the ladies room. I pulled down my pants and the beeper fell into the toilet. The beeper sizzled and then was silent. I swear it was an accident, but I did laugh out loud.

I fished out the beeper and attempted to dry it off with a paper towel, but it kept dripping water. I think I killed it.

I brought the beeper to a clerk, and she gave me a nasty look like it was not the first time this had happened. Then I walked out of the hospital on a beautiful summer day and strolled down the lovely avenue on my way to a celebratory dinner with my husband, who had finished his internship as well. And I drank lots of water.

Dr. Morris is a psychiatrist at the University of Florida Counseling and Wellness Center in Gainesville and has provided clinical care to University of Florida students for the last 20 years. Her areas of specialty include depression, eating disorders, and anxiety disorders.