Bonds that formed in medical school remain strong, 50 years later
I recently had the opportunity to attend my 50th reunion at Tulane University School of Medicine in New Orleans.
I looked forward to the reunion for many reasons, but especially for the chance to travel a distance that requires an airplane, which I had not done since the COVID-19 pandemic.
As with every reunion, there were many changes, not only at the medical school but also with myself and my colleagues. Not surprisingly, many of my class members were not retired — classic of baby boomers — although I told them that, for myself, I can see light at the end of the tunnel.
Playing full court in scrubs
We shared many stories about our experiences as medical students. Charity Hospital was a 1,000-bed hospital located between Tulane Medical School and LSU Medical School. There were no private rooms, and all the inpatient units were wards where you could find any disease listed in the table of contents of Cecil and Loeb Textbook of Medicine or Schwartz’s Principles of Surgery. These included tropical diseases because of the excellent tropical medicine school at Tulane. When I started my internship in San Francisco, I believe I was the only one who had actually seen several patients with schistosomiasis.
On the top floor of Charity Hospital was a complete basketball court. It was not uncommon for some of us to play full court between classes while wearing our surgical scrubs.
As if it were yesterday, I remember the Saturday morning surgical grand rounds. That's correct, early Saturday morning. We called it the Bullpen. The Bullpen itself was a large amphitheater angled with everyone capable of looking down at the moderator and the students.
The moderator was Theodore Drapanas, MD, Henderson professor and chair of surgery. He was famous for his research in the surgical treatment of portal hypertension, surgery of the liver and gastrointestinal metabolism. Tragically, he died at age 45 years in a jet crash at Kennedy Airport.
Finding McBurney’s point
Drapanas was an outstanding teacher. As a third- or fourth-year medical student at Tulane on the surgery rotation, an hour or so before the Bullpen you were given a patient on the ward for whom you would take a history and physical exam and develop a differential diagnosis to present to Drapanas and the department of surgery, as well as all medical students. The charts of the patients were not available for use.
I remember having one patient with a duodenal ulcer, which we hardly see today. However, there were other memorable presentations. One involved a third-year medical student who was given a patient with appendicitis. Drapanas asked the student several questions, including if he knew where McBurney’s point was. The student hesitated and then replied, “I believe you go down Canal Street and then make a left on Royal Street.” Everyone in the bullpen laughed, including Drapanas.
A tremendous landmark
After exams there was always time to hit the French Quarter. Four years of Mardi Gras also was an experience. But all my colleagues agreed we studied very hard and that, in the end, it paid off.
The bonds that form in medical school have lasted for 50 years and I’m sure will continue. For me, the bond with my roommate at Tulane was so strong that he served as the best man in my wedding. That's saying a lot coming from an Italian family where I had 20 cousins who could have been my best man.
We all realized that 50 years was a tremendous landmark in our professional and personal lives, and we expressed gratitude to our significant others many times during the festivities. For me, having been married to the same woman for 45 years has allowed me to achieve what I have done in the field of medicine and cancer care.
There are times in my professional career when I thought about my own mortality. It’s relatively common in view of the field of cancer that we work in. But after the festivities in New Orleans as I flew back to Delaware, that sense of mortality struck a chord like never before. It’s obvious we can’t live forever and, unfortunately, we’ve all seen individuals with cancer whose lives have been taken prematurely.
Which brings me to the lecture that the chief of pathology at Tulane, Charles Dunlap, MD, gave our graduating class on our last day in 1973. His talk inspired all of us and centered on treating patients as if they were our family members.
Dunlap's last words to us were, “never tell a patient when they are going to die because they may live to piss on your grave.” I have never forgotten that statement and am reminded of it when patients ask that question.
Stay safe.
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Nicholas J. Petrelli, MD, FACS, is Bank of America endowed medical director of ChristianaCare’s Helen F. Graham Cancer Center & Research Institute and associate director of translational research at Wistar Cancer Institute. He also serves as Associate Editor of Surgical Oncology for HemOnc Today. He can be reached at npetrelli@christianacare.org.
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