"He Went to Chicago...."

During medical school and residency, slang phrases for death were inevitable, especially amongst the surgical trainees  Thinking back, I'm wondering if a certain wild and crazy resident from Argentina named Mario K might not have invented his own terminology for the act of passing on into the great unknown. I first heard the phrase come out of his mouth and then from others who worked with him. After leaving Texas and my training roots, I never heard this expression again. A Google search for synonyms for  the verb "to die" spews forth all manner of  crude expressions as well as the more generally accepted phrases that one might hear from a funeral director....like "departed", "passed away", or "left us".

Mario referred to the act of dying as "going to Chicago". I remember coming in for rounds one morning as an eager, yet terrified third year medical student and hearing him (as senior surgical resident) say of someone who had died during the night, "He went to Chicago".  I recalled thinking this an odd blend of disrespectful, weird, and funny, a not uncommon situation in Medicine when stress-busting humor commonly borders on the edge of decency, if not beyond. Medical types typically limit our not-so-professional-speak to times when we're in the company of others of like mind or those who wouldn't take offense. Discretion is key.

Yet, "going to Chicago" isn't really an offensive term for dying. The only question I had then, and still do is what happens if someone dies in Chicago?

also published at Ahead of the Wave

Phlebotomy Part 2

The summer between junior and senior years of college I found myself back in Houston, working as a slightly more seasoned phlebotomist. The job was minimum wage, about 2 bucks an hour but I was fortunate to work the day shift; some of my colleagues pulled 3-11 PM. I made about $1000.00 that summer and stashed it away in the bank.

What did I learn? What do I remember about that summer job?


1. I am not a very good phlebotomist; the easy "sticks" flow smoothly but veins come in all flavors; probably the worst are the ones that roll. There were many, many times I left a patient's room empty handed, returning to the lab to ask someone more skilled technically to go back and do the job.

2. More patients than I would have predicted called me "the vampire" when I told them I was there to draw their blood.

3. We "blood-drawer-ers" sat around in the back of the lab wasting time more than we worked. No wonder we earned minimum wage.

4. I saw my first dead person that summer. Called to draw blood on her roommate, I saw an old lady in the next bed who must have just passed on. No one was making any sort of fuss; likely she was expected to go. Even then, instead of the lancing fear I expected to feel, I was overcome with wonder and calm, a sacredness that comes again and again when in similar situations right up to this day.

5. I ate in the cafeteria most days; the food was fabulous. The sweet potato pie was to die for.

6. I met a cute guy, also a phlebotomist.  He had no money and was on his own financially even though he was a year younger than me. He dreamed desperately of becoming a doctor and was taking  required college courses and working simultaneously.  Although he was a genuinely nice person who worked  hard, he never made it to medical school. I think he became a DEA agent.

7.  I don't remember that we wore white coats. I did wear a badge that I was very proud to pin on my shirt;  so proud that I still have it along with other badges I've worn through the years. I suppose we all like to belong to something larger than ourselves and carry proof of it on our person. "Miss" C. Thompson; today it would probably be the full first and last name with no marital status marker.

8. To this day, I have warm feelings for (most) phebotomists. They are a talented group of people who take pride in what they do. Whenever I get my blood drawn I think back....