My SOAP note describes a twenty-nine year old white male who walked into family medicine one morning following a four week history of nausea and vomiting.
What my SOAP note does not describe is despite the well-intentioned “A and P” I had so methodically typed out, that the patient shortly thereafter tried to die.
What my SOAP note does not describe is the rounds of CPR, the broken ribs, the bellowing commands of the charge nurse in heels, and the drugs aplenty he needed to regain any form of recognizable rhythm.
What my SOAP note does not describe is how the attending sat at the end of the patient’s bed – unfazed and with eyes fixed to the floor – locked in time and space as he piloted our frenzy of medicine.
What my SOAP note does not describe is my frantic run to the OR, the fear of getting lost in the hallways, or the sound and sensation of my heart in my ear as I scrubbed in.
What my SOAP note does not describe is the smell of hot blood spilled on the floor of OR22, or the image of the CT surgeon’s well-worn cowboy boots as he made the first cut.
What my SOAP note cannot describe is me – my fear for him, my frustration of helplessness, and my fascination at such raw and real events that is just another day in the life of medicine.