I cringed as the ill-fitting white coat was placed on my shoulders. We were a gaggle of first year medical students traipsing after the pulmonologist to learn how to examine a chest, and I did not have my own white coat. Did I even own one yet?
We had all waltzed into the patient room with no real introduction and were bade to proceed with an exam. It was early days and I felt it was a fraud to pretend I was anything close to a doctor, especially as we were referred to as “doctors”. I was chagrined to be one of the crowd thrusting our cold stethoscopes on the fragile chest of the sick woman, whose name or consent I never heard, tapping on her back, asking her to say “eee” and “”aayy” repeatedly. I murmured apologetic thank you’s to her. So much seemed wrong.
We were told that we would be changed by our medical training. Our tender idealism would be transformed by long hours and hard work. And yet we students tried to forestall that by banding together in support groups, which helped a bit in the first two years before we scattered to disparate shifts in hospitals throughout the city and ultimately to postgraduate training.
What was wrong? Medicine in 1973 was overwhelmingly dominated by white men, often paternalistic and unquestioned. Women were nurses or other staff, and support services heavily non-white, reflecting the rest of the social strata. Our medical school class was unusual in the relatively large proportion of women (almost 25%) and “minorities”, the advancing edge of change. Medical culture lagged far behind however.
I had volunteered in women’s health clinics and free clinics , which tried to change the paradigm. We hoped to empower people with knowledge—especially about reproductive health—in a supportive and respectful environment. We researched common medical issues and produced educational sheets accompanied by hand-drawn diagrams of yeast hyphae or trichimonads. We didn’t wear white coats. Many people, including medical students, wanted medicine to transform.
The white coat became a point of contention. Some students felt it symbolized the power disparities between medical professionals and patients, and caused them to be objectified. Others thought it was a sign of respect for the patients—certainly better than jeans and tee shirts—and created a healthy professionalism.
When the coat was forcibly placed on my shoulders, it seemed like they were trying to squeeze me into a mold I rejected. Once freed from the constraints of the training programs, I jettisoned the coat. And I maintained connections with community and women’s clinics. Maybe I was changed by medical training as we had been warned we would be, but I hoped not too much.
We were told that we would be changed by our medical training. Our tender idealism would be transformed by long hours and hard work.
Khati Hendry
Through the years, and in so many stories Khati, you have proven time and again, that you remain the woman you sought to be even during those early days of medical training: a compassionate and concerned care-giver; not someone concerned about status or rank. Someone who continues to learn, a true person of the of the people. Were you changed by your training? Of course, because you were still soaking up information about the role you had to play and the information you needed to be successful at it. But you never lost the sense of who you wanted to be. You resisted the mold the elders sought to squeeze you into. You are your own woman. Your patients are better for your humanity.
Thanks for your always careful reading and supportive comments Betsy. So glad the computer message error glitch seems to have improved too—good to hear from you.
Thanx Khati for another glimpse into your medical training and your dedication to your chosen work.
My dad was a GP whose office was on the ground floor of our house, and so I was used to seeing him in his white coat, stethoscope in pocket.
Like you he was completely dedicated to the patients in his care, and beneath his white coat beat a compassionate heart.
I really appreciate this comment and hats off to your dad and all the dedicated folks over the years. I know that wearing a white coat has different connotations in different contexts, and in 1973 it symbolized some things we wanted to change. One of the things that changed for me over the years is a broader view of what is important. I also became an enthusiastic adopter of always wearing a name tag.
Thanx Khati for the hats off to my dad who I’ve written much about on Retro, he was quite a special guy.
As for name tags, I love them too, and as I’m often the theatre party or reunion planner and always have name tags at the ready.
I remember the year I lived in London and introduced myself in classes I was taking as Dana altho the others were Mr or Mrs or Miss So and So.
Someone said, “You Americans always get on a first name basis right away.”
Actually I think that’s one good thing about us!
Name tags are increasingly valuable with each passing year!
I have always thought that the white coat of the doctor was a bit intimidating. But I also suffer from “white coat syndrome” among my disparate psychological quirks….
I also thought it strange when wearing scrubs started to become fashionable outside of the medical professions!
All right—a little validation for those who didn’t like that aspect. And “white coat syndrome/ hypertension “ is definitely a thing. You are not alone. I hear you about the scrubs—and how about pajama bottoms? Casual is good but you gotta wonder.
Of the many challenges of entering (and attempting in some ways to reshape) your profession, I have to admit I never gave any thought to the “white coat” issue. So this rumination took me by surprise and was, as always with your writing, illuminating. With regard to name tags: I like them, but I like it even better when each medical/clinical practitioner or their assistants introduces themselves clearly by name as well as professional role. I can’t always read the name tags anymore, and I will be so bold as to state, “I see you know my name, can you please introduce yourself?”
Good point about introductions—which I agree with and certainly always tried to do. It makes a big difference. That, along with the name tags, seems pretty basic but it is shocking how often it is omitted. Good for you for speaking up.
Thanks for this wonderful story, Khati. I agree with everything Betsy said about your compassion and dedication to helping your patients. My father was a doctor, a GP like Dana’s (also with his office attached to our house), but interestingly, I don’t remember ever seeing him in a white coat. He even took me on hospital rounds with him sometimes when I was young (a very special treat), and he didn’t wear a white coat there either.
Regarding names and name tags, now that I am considerably older than most of the doctors I see, it bugs me a little that they call me by my first name and I am expected to call them Dr. So-and-so.
As it turns out, the white coat use is hardly universal—I rarely see it in my part of Canada—and definitely not necessary to provide good care. And as for the names—we were also taught to ask how a person would like to be addressed instead of assuming—another token of respect often ignored. And knock on the door instead of just barging in. And listen more. So many fairly simple things make so much difference.