I have always wanted to become a doctor, but until recently I have only had the experience of being a patient. Since November 2007, however, I have clocked more than a dozen hours shadowing Dr. Lewis P. Rowland of the Neurological Institute at Columbia University Medical Center in New York City. My time with Dr. Rowland has revealed to me the professional and advisory side of medicine, but so far the most interesting aspect has been the intimate relationship I share with his patients.
My first opportunity to work with Dr. Rowland was Nov. 14, 2007. Our first patient entered in his electric wheelchair, followed by his only son and loving wife. To say I was nervous is an understatement. A new patient, after all, meant a new disease to learn. I was on the edge of my seat when Dr. Rowland asked the patient what brought him in. He answered, “I am told I have ALS, and I wanted to get a second opinion.” I was in shock because my father was diagnosed with ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis) two years ago.
Also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease for the Yankee baseball player who died of it in 1941, ALS is a neurodegenerative disease. People who have it suffer from damaged neurons that do not allow the relay of electrical impulses from the brain to the extremities, thereby disabling actions such as arm movement, chewing and even breathing.
ALS is like being bound by cement. The electrical impulses sent from the brain through the spinal chord to the motor neurons are inhibited. No matter how hard a person wants to move his arm or chew his food or even control his own breathing, he cannot because of accumulating damaged nerve tissue. Not much is known about this disease: There is no cure, and the life expectancy for a person diagnosed with ALS is three to five years.
As Dr. Rowland proceeded with the standard questions and test, I realized that this patient resembled my father. It seemed as though Dr. Rowland and I were examining him instead of the patient before us. Both the patient and my father are tall, lean men, with military backgrounds; they carry themselves in a direct and assertive manner.
One specific moment that made me feel awkward was when Dr. Rowland asked the patient to remove his shoes. Unable to do so, his son jumped up and began untying a shoe. As if in a trance, I got out of my seat and untied the other shoe as I have done for my father countless times. This just furthered my perception of the patient being my father.
After Dr. Rowland confirmed the diagnosis, I went through emotional turmoil. I no longer saw the patient that was just diagnosed with ALS, but I saw my dad, whose health has greatly deteriorated over these past two years.
Dr. Rowland left the room. Within seconds I confessed to the patient and his family that my father, too, has ALS. While talking, I looked down at my wrist and my ALS “Never Give Up” bracelet. I took the bracelet off, explained to him that it was an ALS bracelet and said that the motto has been helpful. Then I gave it to him.
I had never taken that bracelet off since I got it, and I like to think that it had become a part of me. When I placed the bracelet on his wrist I felt strangely relieved; I felt as if I had helped my dad through him.
That day I learned many things about procedures, tests and diseases, but I will never forget that patient and the emotions that stirred within me. The patient and I bonded because we both have been affected by ALS. I would like to think that after that day we both have a stronger, more positive outlook on how it affects our lives.
Kenneth Roy Rienecker III, a biology/premed major at Rutgers-Newark, wrote this essay in Rachel Hadas' class, "Literature and Medicine." Posted January 2008.
