Dr. Manners

Short White Coat is a blog about learning to be a doctor. Posts appear here as part of White Coat Notes. Ishani Ganguli is a third-year Harvard medical student. E-mail her at shortwhitecoat@gmail.com.

It's my first week of third-year, and I'm on my best behavior. Not just because clinical work merits a new level of professionalism (to many of the patients I'll meet, I’m already Dr. Ganguli). But also because our class has entered a Strange New World, known colloquially as a teaching hospital. Learning how to occupy our humble place in its medical hierarchy is critical to our survival.

The etiquette demanded of this role comprised much of the orientation leading up to this week’s clinical debut. For the sake of our patients, we learned, we must be quick to admit our lack of knowledge and authority, and even more careful in phrasing this sentiment. So we went around the room last Thursday and Friday, graciously deferring judgment to a higher-up (chief resident, attending physician) in dozens of clinical hypotheticals.

In Monday’s training session meant for surgery (my first rotation), we were schooled on being a team player. We were advised to close the patient’s door and just how to tote a pink bucket filled with gauze and surgical tape on morning rounds. We were warned against the surgical faux pas of wearing a stethoscope around your neck (such garishness is reserved for medicine trainees, apparently). And we were counseled that when a scrub nurse wrongly faulted us for missing a spot, or a superior berated us (within reason) for not knowing the blood vessel between point A and B, we should take it in stride.

All this while sucking the pedagogical marrow out of each clinical rotation, and even helping our patients, I asked myself? Assimilation into this world might be challenge enough.

The night before last, I laid out my scrubs for the next morning and reminisced about first days of school when the all-important decision about what to wear involved a choice -- and more than one shade of gray-blue. I had no idea which floor to report to at the pre-dawn hour, nor whether my drowsy mouth could form a single intelligible statement once I got there. But with my stethoscope stashed safely in my white coat pocket, and a gracious smile at my ready disposal, I was prepared to give it a try.