Ryan McCarthy is an internal medicine physician.
Perpetually late to the game, I was watching The Crown on my laptop Friday night, the wonderful episode set in the summer of 1969, when astronauts landed on the moon. While the world gazed into the heavens, series creator Peter Morgan looked around here on Earth and asked, What does it all mean?
Contrasted against this crowning scientific achievement was the Duke of Edinburgh’s personal crisis of faith. When NASA launched, …
It was like being struck by lightning during the chorus, the recognition that Paul Simon was singing directly to me. “Medicine is magical, and magical is art,” he sang, and I turned up the radio, convinced that I was supposed to hear these lyrics—a tender moment in which I was vulnerable to possibility. The hair on my neck stood up and warmth washed over me, the telltale signs that this …
“I want to use the art of medicine to meet the individual needs of my patients.” These words emanated from the computer as I stared at the Zoom screen. Two large, soft brown eyes, accompanied by a toothy smile, stared straight at me, all framed within a silk hijab, one which was ocean blue with a wisp of pink at the edge. My heart skipped a beat as the reflected …
The COVID-19 pandemic was war, and I served in a foxhole. I survived, in part, by drowning my sorrow in song—music I abused as if it were drugs. I heard “Spaceman” by Nick Jonas today while driving to the hospital, and, at the peak of the chorus, dopamine surged in my brain, making me queasy. My neck hair stood up, and I went clammy. This was not a monstrous rush …
Sue went to the operating room today, which was not at all what I recommended, not that we ever discussed my personal opinion on the matter. With a worsening small bowel obstruction, I woke up this morning and, realizing that matters had worsened overnight, I called her husband, Dave. I don’t think I woke him, but his voice, one complicated by little, if any, sleep and likely hours of talking …
I have too many important tasks during my workday to leave anything to chance in the hazy, slanted dawn. Failure is not on my schedule for tomorrow. So tonight, I will once again pack a lunch, lay out my clothes, and set up the coffee pot.
Before arriving at work in the morning, I will know who I will be seeing and—often—why they are coming to me. If, for some reason, …
I read in a dusty novel that a famous pirate said there are no legacies in this life. Our lives, he said, float atop a fickle sea, and when we die, nothing remains. Many hands work the decks and, in the process, are worn, discarded, and forgotten. The sea gives, and eventually, she flushes the flotsam, leaving no monuments to souls and their adventures.
Well, this is not entirely true. And, …
On this particular day, my heart rolled off my arm and crashed on the cold exam room floor. I summoned the strength—from where? I don’t know. Ginny cried, and between sobs, she described a brain tumor, the one that left him in a bed for a year. I handed her two tissues (one was never enough) and heaved my stool forward. I wrapped my entire arm around her as tears …
I limped into work one morning and, tired from the day which had yet to begin, paused when I did not recognize the name of my first patient. This likely meant that I saw him once, enough to—maybe—remember the basics of his health care, but not his name. If that sounded weird, it was the way my brain worked after twenty years of being a doctor.
I pulled up his chart …
“I made a big mistake a long time ago.”
These words snapped my concentration. I squinted at the computer screen, and even though it had been stable, I waited for Cindy’s pancytopenia to collapse entirely. I enjoyed seeing Cindy, the kind of patient who trusted my counsel and, just as importantly, needed my help. Sweet and cute, she gave me a real hug and a genuine smile every time I saw …
I can’t stop thinking about “customer satisfaction,” which is weird because I don’t actually have customers. I’m a primary care doctor for a group of patients in Martinsburg, WV, and have done so for almost twenty years. At its core, my job is the opposite of having it your way, like I’m told you can do at Burger King.
I don’t sell anything in my office except, perhaps, the benefits of …
I normally don’t make professional resolutions, but this year I am making an important exception. Why would I do such a thing? Like most of my evolution as a doctor, it comes from the wellspring of wisdom, namely listening to my patients.
I had a conversation recently with a patient, Kate, a retired school teacher, a lovely woman who spent her career in Berkeley County, WV, and taught kids who struggled. …
I’ve been reflecting lately because, honestly, I feel like I am—finally—good at primary care. With experience, patience, and, dare I say, wisdom, I experience satisfaction, knowing I can do this job. I’m the real McCoy. Or, in my case, the real McCarthy. And despite this, maybe because of this, the effort required often leaves me incapable of doing much else.
At 47 years old, having survived a pandemic, having found my …
As a West Virginia primary care doctor, I frequently—read: daily—find myself in uncomfortable situations. A few recent events, however, are out of the ordinary, even by the standards to which I am accustomed. Though unique to Martinsburg, WV, I expect similar themes in myriad offices across American health care. If your job resembles mine, I wonder if you feel as lost as I am, though I’m not sure where we …
I am perplexed by two different needles which, when viewed together, illustrate the irrational themes which dominate our shared humanity. They inform me that, despite being a doctor for more than twenty years, I honestly feel dumber each day about human behavior. If, unlike me, you have somehow figured out more along the way, good for you.
The first needle which vexes me was the one stuck in my arm on …
I saw shocking photos from Northern Italy and New York City, reviewed my life insurance, and thought about my three kids. I didn’t chicken out, but I thought about it long and hard as I sat, sipping tea through trembling lips, preparing—whatever that meant. In the end, I got COVID twice while working the frontlines. A few scars, disorders of my hearing, smelling, and tasting. I am dealing. Today, COVID …
Dan died, and I became a writer. I didn’t know it, but I did. Back then, I wrote one story, almost by accident, trying to make sense of my personal chaos. That essay chronicled a small-town doctor losing a beloved middle-aged friend who was rapidly fading from pancreatic cancer. It felt like being dropped into a horrible Lifetime movie come to life, where one day in August 2016, Dan developed …
Get free updates delivered free to your inbox.
