Sarah Tulk is an Ontario physician who recently finished her residency training in family medicine at McMaster University
“If only he had chosen a higher floor, we wouldn’t have had to come here!”
These were the words that came out of my preceptor’s mouth. I was a wide-eyed medical student, shadowing in orthopedic surgery. The patient was an older man who had sustained multiple fractures after attempting to end his life by jumping from an apartment building balcony. The trauma ward was full, so he was, inconveniently, located on a distant ward which meant his poor choice of departure level was now encroaching on our operating room time. In medical school, I learned that mental illness was shameful before I learned how to use a stethoscope.
There is no compassion for a failed suicide attempt.
“If you ever find yourself feeling suicidal, make sure you go at least 10 floors up so as not to become a burden to society,” a pre-clerkship lecturer explained to my highly impressionable, eager-to-please classmates and me. This thoughtless comment was meant to highlight the decreased mortality—but astronomical morbidity—of jumps from anywhere lower than the 10th floor. The lecturer continued to explain how costly intensive care unit admissions and extensive rehabilitation are, particularly given that the chances of returning to be a “productive member of society” were low. Failure to heed this advice and instead of contributing to medicine, one would cause a needless, costly drain to public funds.
There is no compassion for a failed suicide attempt. Jump from well above the 10th floor. Don’t mess it up. Don’t become a burden.
The suggestion that the most substantial consequences of a failed suicide attempted is depletion of the health care budget delivers two strong messages:
1. your personal suffering does not matter; and
2. you are not entitled to receive the help afforded to the rest of the population.
I can only hope that somewhere in our fledgling trainee minds was a hint of questioning towards the lecturer’s statement; a seedling of an idea that (as the lecturer should have said) if you find yourself thinking about killing yourself by any means, seek immediate help because you are experiencing a symptom of a serious illness that can be fatal if untreated.
In a twisted sense, another lecturer who instructed us on how to die by suicide using a rifle was nobler in intent, because the point of instruction was to ensure avoidance of undue suffering and not minimization of healthcare spending. The lecturer explained that to kill oneself with a rifle, it is important to use a broomstick to hit the trigger rather than the hands, so as to avoid a last-minute forward shift in the position of the barrel causing extensive facial and frontal lobe injury, but sparing critical brain areas and thus allowing for survival.
There is no compassion for a failed suicide attempt. Jump from well above the 10th floor. Don’t mess it up. Don’t become a burden. Use a broomstick to hit the trigger.
“If they really wanted to do it, they wouldn’t have come here,” an emergency room (ER) preceptor said. “They’re just looking for attention.” Because if someone really wanted to kill themselves, why would they tell a physician, poised to spoil their plans? It didn’t make sense; clearly, it showed a lack of dedication to their suicide plan.
I held my tongue: don’t we tell patients that the ER is exactly the place to go if you fear you might die imminently? I’m not sure how the preceptor would have reacted had I applied the same logic to the patient with asthma in the next room, who must have also only wanted attention because clearly there was plenty of air for them to breath in there… it was as if they weren’t even trying to get better! Saying that a suicidal patient is not truly suicidal because they are seeking help teaches that it is okay to discredit psychiatric symptoms. It’s a lesson that can be difficult to unlearn.
There is no compassion for a failed suicide attempt. Jump from well above the 10th floor. Don’t mess it up. Don’t become a burden. Use a broomstick to hit the trigger. Suicidal patients don’t belong in the ER.
Unfortunately for medical students, the conscientiousness, obsessiveness and perfectionism that got them into medical school also impart an increased susceptibility to mental illness. Sadly, accessing treatment isn’t simple. While wellness programs are, thankfully, becoming more and more common in Canadian medical schools, these programs are near to futile if we cannot break apart the stigma that prevent trainees from accessing them.
Just as a patient with diabetes can slip into a hypoglycemic coma in a candy store, a medical student can die by suicide surrounded by wellness day pamphlets. At a time in training when the word ‘CaRMS’ sends shivers down one’s spine, how can medical students be expected to seek help without any reassurance that there will not be adverse consequences?
There is compassion for mental illness. Don’t jump. Ask for help. You are not a burden. Put down the gun. Suicidal patients – including physician-patients – belong in the ER, or wherever treatment is available.
What learners hear matters not only to their approach to patients with mental illness, but to their own mental health as well. You never know what your learner is thinking: if you use your influence to normalize mental health care, you just might save their life.