Depending on the location and the weather, Street Medicine can be practiced with numb and frigid hands, sweat dripping down our backs, or heavy eyelids as we hover over our patients, blocking them from the wind or sun. In these conditions, I’ve watched my classmates grit their teeth and double glove, remove bandages and clean wounds that haven’t been seen for months, resist the urge to shrug away from the bottle of bed bugs placed before their nose, and dance jigs to the lively harmonica tunes played by a lovely retired U.S. Veteran.
We set reminders to check our emails 5 minutes before the Sign Ups are released, hoping to be one of the first to click the boxes. Some of us show up early to unpack and set up. Others tear down the event with remarkable speed and vigor. We are a force to be reckoned with—caffeine empowered first year medical students with a heart to serve and the backing of Catherine, Dr. Fauer, and the current rotation of marvelous physicians.
Finding time to volunteer while deep in the midst of medical school is never easy, but the rewards are tangible and life-giving. I can still remember the first day I was able to squeeze my way onto the Street Med team, before I’d even been cleared to direct a patient encounter. I was passed a clipboard with blank lines and boxes to check, then told to stand “there” while someone found a patient for me to interview. The third year student from Mayo whom I was paired with was wonderful—she seemed to have all the right questions. She knew all of the medications, symptoms, and alarms, guiding the patient through her experiences towards a diagnosis with the precision of a surgeon and the soft grace of a ballerina. Then suddenly, I was left alone with the patient while the other student went to report to our attending physician. My pen dropped to the table and I scrambled for questions to fill the awkward silence that descended between us, feeling as if I’d never talked to another person before—
“Where are you from?” “Not here.”
“What’s your dog’s name?” “Frank.”
“Would you like a snack? Maybe a beanie?” “Yes.”
“What’s your story?”
And here we cue the most interesting part of any Street Medicine visit—the stories. The light in her eyes returned as we discussed her children, her partner, and her dog’s sweater that she knitted last fall before the arthritis in her hands became so severe that she couldn’t pick up her needles. She told me about her last emergency room visit and the fight she witnessed down the street last night that sent her praying. Between snacks and sips of Gatorade, she recalled her childhood in Maine where the weather was cold and the people were bitter. She contrasted this with a special hatred of the pounding Phoenix heat that turns everyone into “a special kind of devil”. By the time the third year student returned, she had finished her food and nearly danced away without her Tylenol, joint pain almost forgotten by the surprising healing power of a good conversation.
And onto the next patient. The cycle continued and before I knew it, my clipboard of blank lines was full and my double gloved hands were empty. The chairs are pushed to the side, boxes stacked in the van, and the army of volunteers we raised recedes into tired bones and leather seats, driving back to our apartments—stacked like boxes in the sky. I can’t unsee the differences between us and the people who recline on the street corners. One missed paycheck. One hospital bill. One relapse, and the world shrinks to the size of a tent in a freeway underpass.
The elderly man in the wheelchair with lung metastases and febrile shivers, whose pillow had been stolen 4 nights ago, shook my hand and asked God to bless me. The woman who discovered an underlying cardiac disorder after creating her own, personal stress test using methamphetamines waved goodbye as she rolled into the ambulance on a gurney. The stylish man in a tan jumpsuit picked a beanie to match his outfit (and german shepherd) and told me about his faith in the God of the universe to care for him, quoting scripture better than a schooled pastor. The retired veteran who patrols the streets and breaks up fights between the neighboring communities in order to keep the “young’uns” safe, sleeping on friendly door stoops, shows me the new and improved ice chest he’s been working on. The friendly giant, covered in wounds from bed bug bites, told us that it was pointless to shower if he wanted a bed to sleep on, then played us tunes on the harmonica that he learned for his lover, over 30 years ago. We hold hands, laugh, and dance with our neighbors whom we never would have met without the opportunity to serve them in this way.
For those who volunteer religiously with Street Medicine Phoenix, we can’t unsee the lives of these people who are so often invisible. We collect their stories to preserve and validate their experience—hoping that we can somehow create a kinder world for those who are less fortunate than us. For students who are thinking about engaging in this program, we would challenge you to spend a little more time asking about the lives you are investing in. Your positive interaction with your patient may very well be the highlight of their week– and what an honor it is to hold that place. These stories may not change our lives, but they may open our eyes to the world that exists beyond our car doors and windshields, which may very well change theirs.
Hannie Lynch
Born, watered, and grown in Phoenix, Arizona, Hannie has spent her entire life trying to be anywhere else, photographing weddings all over the US & abroad to avoid the heat. Returning to this city for medical school after undergrad in Tucson at UArizona (Bear Down, Go Cats) was a difficult and beautiful decision that has culminated in a deep fondness for the populations that this city serves: the unhoused, the underprivileged, the migrant, and the refugee. As such, she spends a lot of time working with Street Medicine and other free clinics on 7th Avenue, and will probably be pursuing a career as an ED doc so that she never has to sit still again.