The front doors at Woodhull are automatic but very relaxed. They don’t start opening until you are about to bump into them. I was instructed to meet Ms. S at 8 AM on my first day. After the final steps of onboarding, EMR access, and some casual introductions, I shadowed a palliative care physician filling in for a hospitalist. Having seen Metropolitan and now Woodhull, I am convinced that public hospitals in New York have the nicest people working for them—probably the reason they can still function despite inadequacies. The team breezed through the hallways of the medicine ward, discussing one patient at a time. I found myself impressed and trying too hard to look calm. As if interlocking my fingers, a little too tight, would somehow hold on to today. I did not feel ready for tomorrow when I would lead the rounds.
The J train from the station right outside the hospital always has some empty seats. Amidst the free subway shows and occasional yelling not directed at anyone in particular, I get to do a lot of thinking on those seats. On my return to Pelham Bay Park, a familiar anxiety revisited me. Trying to convince me that I would never be able to do those rounds as gracefully as Dr. D did, that I have nothing to offer to the residents who would round with me, and that I am obviously not ready to take care of the patients on my own—I physically smiled. I know because an old commuter in the seat opposite to me smiled back and gave me a nod. My smile was directed to an old friend of mine. “Hello, imposter syndrome, long time no see! We last met three years back, if I recall correctly.”
I walked past the elevator I was supposed to take. A kind patient who probably stopped me to ask for a direction redirected me to the right elevator. I reached the eighth floor rather quickly. Thank god, the patient’s restroom, by the side of the elevated, does not need codes to enter. As I walked towards my team, I rehearsed saying, “Hi, I am the new hospitalist!”
Yeah, I did not say that. Thankfully.
I don’t remember what I said, but hopefully something better. I remember wanting to ask for the codes to the staff restrooms, but I hesitated.
Because being at the top of the game is the only way of compensating for the understaffed medical wards of public hospitals, the residents I had for my first real day as a hospitalist were phenomenal. I’d credit them for everything that felt easy. “I think I am more disoriented than my patients” was taken as a funny joke—it really was not.
My office is at the end of the ward. After rounds, I returned to the residents' workstation—muscle memory, I guess. I spoke a little with them until I realized I wouldn’t have time to calm a new attending down and take care of a million other things as a medicine resident three weeks back. So they probably don’t have time for me either.
Waiting for me, rather eagerly, in my office was my old friend who paid a visit yesterday on the train. “Attesting a note? Seriously!? How are you qualified for this?” Ignoring it, I started to work on my first attending attestation ever.
There are uncanny similarities between starting an intern year and the attending year. The common denominator is the imposter syndrome. I am three weeks in now. I remember the directions to the elevator, the code to the restroom, and the names of some of my residents (sorry!). I still struggle with convincing myself that all of this is real. That I wouldn’t be here if I did not belong. I have slayed this monster once. Then, my weapon was my family and friends' unwavering support and belief. But this time, I am more equipped—not only with the experience of having dealt with similar thoughts before but also with three years worth of learning from many patients and some wisdom I’ve borrowed from my friends and faculties. And then there is that one week-off to look forward to!