As a child, I remember reciting the nursery rhyme of Solomon Grundy:
Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Grew worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday,
That was the end of Solomon Grundy
Back then, it was just a rhyme. Years later, early in medical school I was confronted with the reality of how quickly life can change.
Monday
On Monday, I had my first ever ward round as a medical student. I was excited. Nervous. I didn’t know what to expect. What to do, where to stand and when to speak. Mostly, I didn’t want to look incompetent in front of the consultant. Thankfully I made it through. And to my surprise, I actually enjoyed it. At the time, it felt like a small step into the world of medicine. I didn’t realise it would also be the start of a lesson I wouldn’t forget.
Tuesday
On Tuesday, whilst on the ward round a “CODE BLUE” was called out. This meant that it was a medical emergency. An elderly patient had suddenly collapsed. The calm, structured rhythm of the ward round disappeared instantly. There was a lot of noise as doctors and nurses rushed to save this man’s life.
As a student, I stood at the edge of it all: watching, trying to process what was unfolding in front of me. They managed to resuscitate him. He was transferred to the intensive care unit. I remember seeing his face as he was wheeled away. Because he was under the care of the consultant I was shadowing, we later visited him in the intensive care unit. He was still alive. But only just.
Wednesday
On Wednesday, I heard the sad news that he had died overnight. It was the first time, this early in my training, that I had seen someone go from alive to gone in such a short span of time. An autopsy was scheduled for Thursday.
Thursday
On Thursday, I attended my first autopsy as a medical student. I had seen this man alive just two days earlier. Now, I stood outside the mortuary anxious and nervous. I tried to prepare myself for what I was about to see as I got changed into scrubs and boots. When the body was brought out from the cold fridge, this time I did not see the man’s face what I saw was a grey bag. Inside was a life that had ended. As the zip of the bag was being opened I could not bare to look at the man’s face.
The pathologist then began performing the autopsy, the quest to find the cause of this man’s death had begun. I had not known his story but I had seen him alive. I had never spoken to him. Yet here I, was helping weigh his organs. Holding his brain in my hands. Lifting his heart in my hands, watching as blood drained through what had once been living tissue. Slowly the pathologist was piecing together the possible cause of death.
Friday
On Friday, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. What had caused his death? How had his family taken the news of his death? They would see him in a coffin but would never speak to him again. I had to continue on with the rest of my studies and obligations for the week. Life had to continue for me, even as I tried to process everything I had seen.
What Medicine Taught Me That Week
That week didn’t just teach me about death. It taught me something most of us ignore: we assume we have time. It’s easy to believe this only happens to the elderly. But in medicine, you quickly realise that time is not something anyone is guaranteed. People don’t always decline slowly over decades. Sometimes, they are here one day and gone the next.
My days on earth are numbered, so are yours. I could be here one day and gone the next. Experiences like this are part of what shapes you in medicine. They don’t just teach how to treat patients. They clarify how you choose to live your own life. Unlike Solomon Grundy, I can take comfort in this: death is not the end of me, but the end of life as I know it. And that truth changes how I choose to live it.