In the early days of internship I asked myself: “If I am a ‘house officer’, when will I feel fully ‘at home’?” “At home” means being at ease in a new hospital, a new apartment, a new city and a new role as a doctor.

Apparently, the transition is not as easy as one might think. To humorously remind myself of this, I have permanently stored a message from the ED on my pager: “Anna, Please Call re: patient Bortnick.” Reflecting on the past few months, I realize what is critical to feel comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings: predictable transportation, emotional and intellectual resources and accessible and useful information.

I may still be settling into a workplace, but at least, I have control over my apartment. I have reached a state of equilibrium between items I use and those I store, so now my environment is a biochemical system best described by the first law of intern thermodynamics: As orderliness increases at work, apartments become more disordered. Except, that is, the bookcases with Harrison’s, handbooks and journals. Medical trinkets are never triaged, and drawers overflow with tuning forks, filaments, and quick recall cards. White coats burst with copies of histories and physicals. Pockets are stuffed with manuals and scopes. Without these tools at hand, I would invariably need them in the middle of the night. But, if I found the right one, would it still have a working battery?

Aside from a well-stocked doctor’s coat or bag, access is another element that makes house officers feel at home. The power of the ID card cannot be over emphasized. Cards open restricted doors and—if you correctly remember the keypad code—allow entrance (sweet relief) to a call room. Like magic, an all-powerful Code Blue card can divert an elevator. But my ID card, after prayerful swipes at many doors, proved to be a lemon. Taking advantage of the previous cardholder’s entry is strictly forbidden, as the security guard politely informed me when he was silently summoned to investigate a door propped open for more than 30 seconds. Today, my name graces the list of shameful transgressions with those of other rogue house officers.

At the DFCI Office of Security, my wanted poster is prominently featured on a bicycle parking violation. After parking in the same location for an entire month I discovered, post-call from a busy night in the CCU, that my principal mode of transportation was impounded. Once past the initial trauma, I sighed thankfully that, at least, my bike had not been stolen; in fact the bike was now even more secure with the additional lock. Too tired to negotiate its release, I slept-walked home. My belle indifference lasted seven days, during which I would periodically pass by the DFCI to check on the bike, before I mustered the energy to enter the security office. To my surprise, the negotiation involved a ransom equal to the cost of the bike. Unwilling to accept this, I persuaded the fair-minded officer to free my bike, probably because there was no warning sign posted and no notice given. Thank goodness for high school debating.

While transportation, usually with wheels, is crucial to a house officer who is rushing home after another busy day, applying for permission to park is like going to the DMV: limited hours, long lines, and complex paperwork, only to hear: “I’m sorry, but you need to bring in a utility bill as proof of residence.” A medical license for the state of Massachusetts is not an acceptable substitute. Once successful, you are at last only a short car-ride away from your destination…provided you can get the car started. Wrestling with a jammed steering wheel at three a.m., laughing at the irony (Why leave? I am ‘at home’), the warm lights of my hospital illuminated my struggle, calling me back inside to bed.

Yes, I now drive around Boston, feeling more settled in. I enjoy exploring various neighborhoods and making comparisons to my native Philadelphia. Storrow Drive reminds me of Kelley Drive; the Charles, the Schuylkill River; and, the Arnold Arboretum, Fairmount Park. Fortunately, the T is not SEPTA (the South Eastern Transportation Authority) and it goes without saying that the Red Sox are not the Phillies.

Home is a sense of familiarity we recreate when faced with the unfamiliar. Like Hemingway, a man “depaysé,” we long for a home, a “clean, well-lit place.” Just do not look for it in an intern’s apartment. Back to Top

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