I know that because this practice now transcends the routine and embodies life itself for me. I began this pilgrimage in a different life, but its continuation in this one sustains me. I approach these days with the sacredness of a priest, but I see no salvation in them like a non-believer.
Slowly, my eyes refocus on the surrounding room. It is dark in here, except, a faint luminosity trickles in from the nearby room that is separated from me by a pane of glass. The only other room that I know of which resembles this one has one way glass, and the police use it to interrogate suspects.
In a way, I guess that is why I am here too.
I begin to slide into a familiar cylindrical opening. I can see the words, “Do not stare directly into the laser aperture.”
I always think that aperture is too big of a word to use for such a small space.
But, I do not design these machines, in fact, I never want to see one ever again. Let them use a five-dollar word where a one-dollar word would do. It does not matter. Nothing really exists in here anyways. Suddenly, a light whirring noise cracks the façade of tranquility, and a rhythmic electronic beeping noise interjects itself between my thoughts. I settle into the paper lining beneath me, and I lie still, stiller than I have ever been, but not as still as I will ever be. Sometimes, I think that if I am quiet enough, I will be able to hear the radioactive tracer coursing through my veins, riding the superhighway of my blood vessels to the farthest reaches of my being. I know where the road ends. The tracer always coagulates into an unmistakable pattern before the radiologist’s eyes. It always shows cancer.
I used to arrive here brimming with the anxiety that inexactitude and uncertainty create, but not anymore. I have begun to enjoy, even relish, this ritual in my interrupted life. The more time that I spend in here, this coffin, this ark, the more I realize that this is the only place that I do not have cancer. I had cancer when I began to slide into this machine, and I may when I get out, but right now, until they see the scan, this precarious existence that I have temporarily carved out is a paradise of unpredictability. For the fifteen or twenty minutes that I am in here, I exist outside of five-year survival rates. I tower above the looks of pity that I receive soon after their eyes meet my smooth skull. I am not cured either, no, but while the machine works, I am at peace.
Afterwards, I sit waiting in an exam room while the radiologist maps out my existence. Absently, a half-paid attention to high school physics lesson floats into my mind. That day, my teacher told us to visualize a cat in a box. We were asked to imagine that there was a poisonous chemical in the box with the cat that had a fifty percent chance of killing it. The catch was, until someone opened the box, we could not know if the cat was alive or dead. Until that time, it was both. The lesson was designed to teach us something about quantum theory, but I never quite understood it. How could something be both alive and dead? As I sit in my chair, neither alive, nor dead, I understand perfectly well.
My doctor enters the room and stands before me holding the results of my scan in his hand like an ancient Roman emperor whose thumb hovers parallel to the ground before he decides if the gladiator should live or die.
He looks at the paper, pauses, and then looks up at me.
If formerly society was founded on a renunciation of enjoyment for the sake of social duty, then the only duty today consists in becoming oneself (to appropriate Todd McGowan). This piece posits that mental health discourse today only offers a new injunction for its subjects: to become self-identical, to self-actualize. We are increasingly told to “normalize talking about mental health”, but isn’t this declaration already anachronistic? Our mental health seems to be all that we can talk about, a new mode of narcissism only thinly veiled as somehow political, progressive, subversive. But if we have already absorbed the platitudes of liberal mental health discourse, then why is the mental health crisis worsening? The piece contends that it is in fact the presuppositions of mental health discourse that are the environment in which mental health issues form, that it is out of a dissatisfaction with an individual failure to achieve the imperatives foisted upon us by mental health discourse that mental health symptoms emerge. The solution is in fact the problem, and it is only when we challenge the notion of the individual undergirding mental health discourse that we can contend with the current mental health crisis, by positing an alternate model of the subject as relational, rather than as substantial entity, in which such a project of self-actualization becomes meaningless, and find meaning elsewhere (through collective emancipation).
About the Author
Will Moody graduated from the University of Denver in June 2020 with a degree in molecular biology and plans to apply to medical school in June 2021. In May 2020, Will was diagnosed with Hodgkin Lymphoma and after undergoing treatment was informed his cancer had returned in November 2020. Writing has been a much needed creative outlet for him during this time. Will is currently working on his first book and spending time with his family while he continues treatment. His writing also appears in Pulse – Voices from the Hearts of Medicine, Aspiring Docs Diaries, and his blog, The Rest of Your Life.
I had just set up my post at the volunteer desk and was midway through the process of screening a visitor, asking, “Have you had any recent fevers, cough, …” when one of the hospice nurses, Nyah, quietly interrupted me. “Excuse me, would you be willing to go sit with 12?” “She isn’t doing well.” My heart raced, but I responded with an unwavering, “Yes, of course I can!” I walked briskly to the end of the corridor and found the patient’s room. I was greeted with a flashy, yellow sign, indicating a positive C. difficile infection, so I took appropriate precautions prior to entering her room.
Upon entering, a CNA met my gaze and knowingly passed on what seemed like everything I needed to know, without even saying a word. Her face told me the patient unfortunately did not have long. I pulled up a chair and tried to get to know more of who “12” was. Glimpsing up at her care team board, I saw a familiar scene: in faded dry erase marker, there were multiple family members’ names and their phone numbers scrawled all over. Some left messages, “Get well soon, Grandma!” and “We love you!” others drew little happy faces, stick-figure drawings of themselves, or sketches of dogs and hearts. I gave May’s hand a light squeeze with my gloved hand. The board also listed May’s recent medications, her husband’s name, and Lutheran, as her religious affiliation. May struggled to breathe, showing signs of a Cheyne-Stokes breathing pattern, but I asked her if she would like me to pray for her. She attempted to respond, but her labored breathing allowed her only a nod. For a brief second, May was able to hold eye contact, and in her eyes, I could see that she wanted relief.
Immediately, fear washed over me. What if my prayer wasn’t what May wanted to hear? How do I know what her specific requests are right now? I squeezed her hand again, before praying for peace and comfort for May. My prayer lifted, and again, I gave her hand a light squeeze. This time, May’s eyes were unable to focus on me, and I could tell she was steadily slipping towards death. I wondered deeply who May truly was and wished I had a time machine, bringing me back to the highlights of her years. A septuagenarian, I couldn’t help but think how she was affected by the pandemic in her final year of life. Without knowing May and the intricacies of her life leading up to this precious moment, it was impossible for me to know just how profound of an impact masks, gowns, face shields, and other measures of PPE had on her life. I wanted so desperately to remove my glove and provide skin-to-skin contact in her last moments. Instead, I offered a few more words of comfort and solace to May, and mostly just sat in silence with her, as her breathing drifted and her skin began to pale. Her limbs grew limp. A tear rolled down my cheek, burying itself in my mask.
Suddenly, the door opened, and in walked May’s husband, Gene, bewildered by May’s lifeless body. His partner of almost 50 years had only just passed, and he was in shock. He abruptly dropped his cane, which clanged off the ground with a stark metallic pitch that reverberated through my bones. Gene’s words faltered as he looked towards me, “I, … Who…?” And then stuttered, “Mmmay?” I didn’t respond, knowing that his thoughts would assemble in time. I excused myself to give Gene space to mourn, and later that evening, I was approached by Gene and May’s daughter. She introduced herself as Sharon, and then she asked me if she could hear about my last moments with her mom. Her puffy, swollen eyes, and long solemn face peered into my soul, as I provided details of the experience, praying, squeezing her hand, and trying to comfort May with my presence. May’s daughter beamed with gratitude and burst into tears, stating that her mother had been isolated for months leading up to her death, due to COVID-19 restrictions at the nursing home she was in. I could tell she wanted nothing more than to be with her mother and to be the one to hold her hand, but she managed to say, through a river of tears, “Thank you for being there for her. And praying with her– that was so kind of you.” When I met Sharon’s eyes to respond, an outpouring of tears fell down our cheeks, almost in unison, knowing that an act of mourning had just brought us closer.
Grief is a nearly palpable feeling felt deep within, and after May’s death, I carried her loss physically, mentally, and emotionally. The staggering death toll due to the novel coronavirus over the past few years is a constant reminder of grief. With every number that ticks across the television screen, there is likely someone, somewhere, grieving their loss. Shared mourning may assuage fears of some, reconciling to others, and aggravate opinions of a few. The process of remembering individuals who have died, either to direct or indirect factors related to the pandemic can bring healing. The connection May and I had in her final moments revealed that sitting close, hand in hand, did not require a familial relationship, only a bond that unites us all — as human beings. As continue to move toward the resolve of the COVID-19 global pandemic, a cloud of enduring grief hangs low, and we continue to mourn. May we draw upon our shared experiences, recall the power of presence, and surpass traditional boundaries to create new connections with one another.
The patient’s name and other details have been changed to protect patient privacy.
About the Author
Mikayla Brockmeyer is a second-year osteopathic medical student at Des Moines University. She enjoys narrative medicine, reading for pleasure, and trying new ice cream flavors.
For fear that if I let myself understand, paralysis would ensue.
According to Newton’s 1st Law of Motion I would be doomed if I stopped.
I’d already started and was the first in the group each day to grab a scalpel and pull down the gauze.
When teammates hesitated to chip away the frontal bone, I was the first to offer to perform the task.
But despite being first to initiate dissections on our donor, I also felt it my duty to protect him. I always maintained contact with a part of him, placing the palm of my hand usually on his arm or his abdomen. And yet, now I realize that keeping constant contact with the chilled and moist muscles beneath my double-gloved hand wasn’t protection for our donor at all, but for myself. It was a selfish act, a strange way to keep myself grounded. If I could keep my hands involved, then just maybe I could tether my mind to the current task and not allow it to rise up and reflect.
Now I realize my error and cowardice.
I took the easy way out.
Yes, it would have been more difficult to regain inertia if I paused to contemplate my actions
But maybe I would have taken a greater appreciation of the humanity of the situation.
For that, I admire my teammates who took the time to hesitate.
They are braver than I ever was.
This writing is a response to the piece “Gross Anatomy” by writer, poet, and medical student Hannah Erlbacher. Importantly, Hannah and I started our close friendship in the anatomy lab. This piece is dedicated to her, one of my dearest friends and inspirations. “
About the Author
Lola Lozano is a first year MSTP student dedicated to integrating the arts and humanities with science and medicine.
The derecho knocked out your power for at least 24 hours
Your loved ones watched you receive your white coat via Zoom
You took your class photo in the courtyard, clad in PPE and 6 feet apart
You and your lab mates bumped face-shields while hunching over your respective donor to see a small structure
But then you wondered how all the classes before you had done dissections without these forms of PPE…
You were instructed to take your lab scrubs and coat home to wash after every dissection
You unconsciously constructed faces for your classmates and were shook when they removed their mask beneath their shield to take a sip of water and looked completely different from what you had thought
You took your last anatomy practical online
You didn’t get all the free food you were promised when you interviewed
You ate while you watched lecture at home and consequently nearly choked on your food every time Swailes presented a GIF of a spewing sphincter or Ruby showed a photo of familial hypercholesterolemia (MOHD I, Lecture 46, Slide 14) unannounced
You celebrated finishing an exam on Friday afternoons by treating yourself to take-out dinner for one, instead of hitting up the legendary Big Grove Brewery you’ve heard so much about
You flipped a green “Sanitized” card over to its red “Needs to be sanitized” side after eating lunch at Java House
You made friends by sharing your hobbies and interests on a shared spreadsheet with your classmates
You practiced your physical exam skills on your pillow
You interviewed your first simulated patient via Zoom
“Swipe in, Swipe out”
You became more acquainted than you ever wanted to be with your professors’ nose hairs gazing down at you through the Zoom camera
You never got as acquainted with your professors as you would have hoped
You got your temperature checked each time you entered the hospital to attend an ECE or at PES sessions
You upgraded your personalized Lego-style face helmet from CCOM for one of Amazon’s glasses-style face-shields
Because you quickly learned that there is such a thing as cool face-shields and if you ever hoped to wear your hair down again, you’d need to fork over the $20 to buy a pack
You never got to hug your friends when saying goodbye at the bus stop after lab…or any other time for that matter
But you did palpate the femoral pulses of classmates you’d never met while a PETA-on-a-Pole struggled to see and evaluate your performance
You almost had a heart attack when you realized for some unknown reason your face took over the speaker screen during Zoom class and you were the subject of 1 eternal second of your peers’ scrutiny
You didn’t get to say goodbye and thank you to your donor the way you had hoped
You realized how thoughtful many patients are when they expressed their sympathy that you had to wear PPE day in and day out, yet they were the ones afflicted by cancer
Your greatest anxiety came, not from classes like everyone all those years told you it would, but from deciding whether or not to travel back to your hometown to see family over winter break
It’s been a journey, my friends, and as all cheesy sayings go, this is just the start. During this exceptionally strange and challenging time, we have so much to learn about our world together. But ultimately how we come together and make it better is what counts. So here is to the start of a new semester with you: may we connect more so because of this distance and find the pearls upon reflecting on each experience so that we might create something beautiful and new, to help our future patients and to help our world.
A bullet point reflection with some humor and some melancholy touches on what I perceive to be shared experiences from M1s starting at CCOM during the SARS-Cov2 pandemic.” – Anonymous
Build yourself, do not erase it, the instructor says
when she talks about beliefs,
that a client’s or patient’s will differ from mine.
Still, I try to be absent,
void of opinion,
as though my nothing will make room for someone else—
everyone else,
so
I stacked steel beams and plaster.
When she sees the bony structure, the instructor begs:
what do you believe?
I sand the popcorn ceiling,
and I try to be considerate
while her mouth seems to water,
while mine is a vacuum
that sucks and sucks until the cavity dries,
I
treasure this great blank canvas.
So she asks about my childhood, my church, my enemies
How I may see them in the frame.
The mortal coil is design!
How easy to say by clay sculpture,
furnished with Calacatta.
With no pennies and no eye, I
sprawl across the cool tile, fingers in the corners,
and
command my vessel to leak.
This piece hopes to serve as an exploration of the self and responsibility as a provider in the medical field; in a system of people serving people, a provider must build a space for themselves and a client/patient” – Lexys Sillin
About the Creator
Lexys Sillin is a nonfiction writer that largely pulls from her own experiences with family, mental health, and grief as inspiration. She currently serves as a first-year student of Marriage and Family Therapy at Mount Mercy. Lexys lives with her two cats and her husband, Mason, who generously proofreads all of her work, including this bio.
Out of place and in fear of showing who I am
I am the disgraced Moor who killed the lamb
He swore to love because the burning
In my heart came from the yearning
To be a part but We are not
We are at the edge
Despite making a true pledge
To care for my sweet love
The pure, white, faithful doe
But the realm of the exiled Dante
Brings out the brazen ox that slays
The truth as that envious fox
Confirms my own doubt that locks
My mind from those I refuse to heed
Because I am only who I read
Love or hate I cannot tell
But my addiction is my alarm bell
And it is also my remote
That controls me and keeps me afloat
There! Is that him? My heart flutters
No. Just sea foam from the rudders
I must find that devilish God
To prove he is nothing but a fraud
I force the crew upon the rowboat
He is in the waters but will come to gloat
I will slay that beast soon,
As I drive him through with my harpoon
But what will I do after, and if, I succeed
Because I am only who I read
I was made, yet for what
Even my makers do not know, but
I am what I am and have become
Something you do not like, not the son
You had wanted, but a monster,
A monster you cast aside, righteous doctor.
All because I am what I am and so
Punish me for not fitting the status quo
You will not give me freedom
Nor allow me into your, or any, Eden
All I wanted was someone
But your self-hatred, now projected
Onto me, the thing you dissected,
Follows me to the edge of the earth
But now I realized what you gave birth
To. I am a monster to you, silver spoon
Human, but I am beyond your bleak cocoon
I am eternal and rule the northern glacier
A romantic undead between you and nature.
Eventually you will be nothing but history
But I will remain the immortal mystery
That all will remember as your name—your deed—
Because I am only who I read
Whether a Moor
Or a white whale whore
Or an undead gore
Each book opens a door
To another person that craves more
I wonder who will be number four
Being able to relate to a character in a book or other narrative story is a mark of a well-crafted character. Going through various classical characters in this poem, the narrator connects to each of their stories.” – Zain Mehdi
About the Creator
Zain Mehdi is an M1 at the University of Iowa Carver College of Medicine. He previously studied molecular and cell biology and English at Cornell University. Originally from Pittsburgh, Zain has had a passion for drawing, painting, and writing since kindergarten.
This year, the University of Iowa Roy J. and Lucille A. Carver College of Medicine celebrated 150 years of excellence in medical education, research and patient care. In celebration, this winter The Appendix will be highlighting stories and photographs from Carver history.
This year, the University of Iowa Roy J. and Lucille A. Carver College of Medicine is celebrating 150 years of excellence in medical education, research and patient care. Medical education at the UI Carver College of Medicine dates back to 1870 when it welcomed its first class of medical students. More information about the UI Carver College of Medicine’s history can be found at www.medicine.uiowa.edu/150. As a second-year medical student fully engrossed in the medical education process, I was curious how my educational experience compares to that of a student who graduated many years before. To answer this question, I virtually sat down with Charles Argo, MD, who graduated in 1967 from the University of Iowa College of Medicine.
Dr. Argo is the oldest of 8 siblings who grew up on a farm in Moravia, IA. They raised hogs, hereford cattle, dairy cows, sheep, chickens, two large gardens, and even had an orchard. His house did not have electricity until the late 1940s and did not have indoor plumbing until the early 1960s. Now, he recognizes that they did not have much money growing up but never thought of themselves as a poor family. Rather, he learned the value of having a good work ethic which would come to serve him well during his years in medical school and as a practicing Family Medicine physician.
Dr. Charles Argo
As a family with relatively little money, Dr. Argo does not remember going to the doctor unless severely ill or injured. On one occasion when he was sick, he went to see Dr. Anthony Owca in Centerville, IA, but when it came time to pay, the fee was waived. Dr. Owca’s generosity is something that Dr. Argo remembers to this day. However, the driving force behind his interest in medicine occurred when he was seventeen years old in June of 1958, the summer between his junior and senior year of high school. He was transporting a wagon of hay on the family farm when he was involved in a tractor accident where he was trapped under the tractor for at least an hour. A hearse finally came to pick him up and take him to the Centerville Emergency Department since the hospital did not have an ambulance. Dr. Argo distinctly remembers that rather than the saline IV bags that are used now, he was hooked up to glass bottles filled with saline held by Dr. Owca as they rode in the hearse to Ottumwa.
Dr. Argo spent the next three months in the St. Joseph Hospital in Ottumwa, IA. He was in a coma for two weeks; his family unsure if or when he would fully recover. He had third-degree burns on his left leg, left arm, and left back, as well as foot drop from burn injury to the common peroneal nerve, a multi-fractured pelvis, and a ruptured bladder. During his time in the hospital, he had regular burn debridement which often left the room with an unpleasant aroma of decaying flesh. His mother even brought room deodorizers to help allay the stench.
During those three months, he laid in his hospital bed reflecting on what had happened to him. When he was pinned under the tractor, he remembers bargaining with God and offering to do anything in exchange for his life. It was as he laid in that hospital bed that he realized what God wanted him to do: be a physician. At the time, Dr. Argo knew nothing about going to medical school. No one in his family was in the healthcare field. In fact, his rehabilitation team told him that he did not have the aptitude to be a doctor, would always walk with a limp, and always have a dysfunctional left arm. He only knew that the surgeon who had been overseeing his care, Dr. Herbert Wormhoudt, went to Central College in Pella, IA, and then continued at the University of Iowa College of Medicine. This was enough to set him on a course that would culminate in earning his Doctor of Medicine from the University of Iowa College of Medicine as well.
Dr. Argo studied chemistry and was on the pre-medicine track at Central College in Pella, IA. Dr. Argo remembers that at the time, some students could complete three years of undergraduate studies at state colleges and then use their first year of medical school to complete their Bachelor of Science degree. He brought this up to his pre-medicine advisor at Central but was told that he could not do that. He would have to spend all four years at Central to receive his Bachelor of Art degree in chemistry. While dismayed by this answer at the time, he now feels grateful to have had the time to take classes outside the sciences such as English history, music appreciation, religion, and art appreciation. “Generally speaking you’re going to have a lot of different kinds of people and status and levels of education, financial situations, and their cultural exposures,” he says. He believes exposure to subjects in the humanities are an important aspect of the personal and professional development necessary to be more holistic providers for our patients.
At the end of his second year at Central College, he met his wife, Jean, who majored in math and minored in Latin. They got engaged between his third and fourth year and married shortly after graduation on August 16, 1963 before he began medical school that fall. During his fourth year at Central, he applied to two medical schools: the University of South Dakota College of Medicine and the University of Iowa College of Medicine. He remembers paying a small fee for his application to the USD College of Medicine but really had his attention on the UI College of Medicine as his first choice school. He submitted his written application and transcripts along with an MCAT score. The final piece of the application process, still unchanged today, was the interview. Dr. Argo remembers his interview was conducted by a psychiatrist who asked him all kinds of questions about his life, not about his aptitude for medical school. When he left after an hour or so of conversation, he felt like he had failed the interview since he had not talked about his suitability for a career in medicine. His admission later that fall of 1962 to the University of Iowa College of Medicine’s class of 1967 said otherwise. His class of 1967 began with 120 students and graduated 114 of them. He remembers there were 7 women in his class and 19 out-of-state students, one of which was a woman from Germany.
He moved to Iowa City, IA, with Jean and lived in an 8 feet x 40 feet trailer in the Dennis Trailer Court on the east side of Iowa City. This was just three blocks north of the school where Jean taught 8th grade math and 9th grade Latin. He also bought his first car after his graduation from Central College. It was an aqua, white, and gold 1958 Ford Fairlane 500 which lasted him just through his final year of medical school when it stopped working. There were a few of his classmates living there as well, so they often carpooled during the first two years to campus, a campus that differed significantly from today’s medical campus.
“There was no Pappajohn, no Stead,” he says, referring to the Pappajohn Biomedical Discovery Building and the Stead Family Children’s Hospital. He remembers the main General Hospital with its large wards, Boyd Tower, the Medical Research building, the Medical Laboratories building, the Psychopathic Hospital (now the Medical Education Building), and the VA Hospital comprising the campus at the time. There were no learning communities like the ones that decorate the halls of the first floor of the Medical Education and Research Facility now. Rather, they had classrooms that could also be used for studying after the classes had finished. Dr. Argo did most of his studying at a plywood desk in his trailer, but when on campus, he spent his time studying at the library. Readers familiar with the medical school campus might think he is referring to the Hardin Library for the Health Sciences, but this structure did not yet exist. It was Robert C. Hardin, a dean of the College of Medicine while Dr. Argo was in medical school, who advocated for a new health science library building that was finished in 1974 (University of Iowa Libraries).
The first two years of his medical education was strictly bookwork. He rotated through classes for histology, anatomy, neurology, biochemistry, and labs for histology and anatomy. In his anatomy lab, the students were in groups of six as determined by the alphabet. He was in a group with five other students from the beginning of the alphabet learning from a donor cadaver and using Grant’s Atlas of Anatomy as their guide. One of his favorite memories from medical school was during a histology test. He remembers sitting down to a stack of papers more than a foot deep. One of his classmates stood up and started to walk out, but then he turned around and came back to sit down. “I think it’s probably good because I do think there would have been several that would have followed him because it seemed to be so overwhelming,” he shared.
After his first year, he conducted research with the Obstetrics department to determine if bradykinin, a peptide that promotes inflammation, was present in the amniotic fluid of women and was the initiator of labor. He remembers they collected amniotic fluid from patients and it was not present, proving it was not the causative agent of onset of labor. He really enjoyed his research experience but felt more motivated by patient care. The summer following his second year, he shadowed at a Family Medicine Group Practice in Iowa City.
During the second two years, he spent his time on clinical rotations through departments like surgery, pediatrics, neurology, internal medicine, ENT, OB-GYN, urology, psychiatry, dermatology, radiology, anesthesiology, orthopedics, and ophthalmology. He remembers spending the most time on rotations with surgery and internal medicine. He also fondly remembers being a student of Dr. Rubin Flocks, head of the Urology department and after whom one of the current Learning Communities is named. Dr. Argo remembers Dr. Flocks as a kind, considerate, and good teacher to the medical students. Between his third and fourth years, he completed an externship at St. Luke’s in Cedar Rapids, IA, where he was exposed to the use of hypnosis in medicine for allergies, rashes, headaches, and pain, for example.
Beyond his studies, he was involved in the Phi Beta Pi fraternity, which he jokes that he used for networking with his classmates farther down in the alphabet. This is where he would go for lunch while on campus and would also attend football games together. He and Jean were active in a couple churches, as well, during his time in Iowa City.
He graduated from the University of Iowa College of Medicine on June 9, 1967. He completed his Rotating Internship at the Sacred Heart Medical Center in Spokane, WA, in one year rotating through medicine, surgery, obstetrics, and covering the Emergency Department. Dr. Argo then became a commissioned officer in the United States Public Health Service, specifically the Indian Health Division. He realized during these years just how well the University of Iowa College of Medicine prepared him when compared to some of his colleagues. For the next two years, he was stationed in Nespelem, WA, and cared for the Spokane Tribe of Indians and the Colville Tribes. The nurse that he worked with in Nespelem was from the Colville Tribes.
While he loved living and working in the Spokane area, after two years they decided to move back to Iowa to be closer to family. He had two children, a girl and a boy, and he wanted them to be able to spend time with their grandparents. He began practicing as a general practice physician at the Mahaska County Hospital and Family Medical Center in Oskaloosa, IA, on July 1, 1970. He was certified and fulfilled membership requirements for the American Academy of General Practice (AAGP) in June of 1971. However, the AAGP later became the American Academy of Family Physicians (AAFP) in October of 1971.
Dr. Argo began working in Oskaloosa with 3 other doctors which eventually grew to 11 doctors and 2 physician assistants by the time he retired on July 1, 2007. He confesses that he was a workaholic when he first arrived in Oskaloosa, IA. As his kids got older and as more providers joined the practice, though, he found it easier to prioritize spending time with his family. He worked as a Family Medicine physician, delivered babies, and worked in the Emergency Department, too.
Since retiring, he has been active in farming, the local ruritan club, the County Board of Health, his church, his Homeowner’s Association Board, and the RED (Ready to Engage and Discover) Society Board & Committee through his undergraduate institution, Central College.
When asked about advice to give to current medical students, this is what he has to share with the next generation of healthcare providers: “Learn all you can at the Carver College of Medicine. That’s why you’re there. And then after graduation, keep on learning. You know, it doesn’t stop. And then I would definitely encourage that one be an advocate for patients…The biggest thing is providing the best care you can, and you’ll be able to do that by knowledge and being an advocate for them. We live in a society where there’s politics and insurance companies and all kinds of things that get in the road of being able to provide care. The best medical care comes from the dialogue between the patient and doctor, and then providing the best care that the patient and the doctor mutually agree upon, not of the third-parties having sway in those decisions.”
Bibliography
University of Iowa Libraries. “History of the Libraries: Health Sciences.” The University of Iowa Libraries, 2020, https://www.lib.uiowa.edu/history/branches/hardin/.
About the Author
Claire Carmichael is a second year medical student at the University of Iowa Carver College of Medicine.
