The sweet aroma of freshly baked brownies, chocolate chip cookies and a frosted cake greet the waking senses of Dr. James Bové’s staff in O’Bleness Memorial Hospital’s lounge. Bové strolls in and winces at the confections while tightening the strings of his tropical-motif hospital cap. 

“Oh, why not,” says the associate professor of surgery, sinking into a chair and reaching across the table for a brownie. 
Not every morning begins this way for these medical professionals, but it’s nurse Brenda Burson-Catania’s birthday, and the day won’t pass without a celebration — even if they have to squeeze it in at the crack of dawn, just minutes before surgery. 

Ohio University Professor of Music Richard Syracuse is prepped, out cold and lying on a table in the operating room. Bové is performing hernia repair surgery using a new tool called a harmonic scalpel — an appropriate choice for Syracuse, a Juilliard-trained pianist. 

“OK, ready to start?” asks Bové as he cranes his neck to look at the wall clock: 8:15 a.m. “Power 105. Can someone get to that?” 

The radio station’s weatherman is predicting an overcast day as Bové makes a two-inch incision in Syracuse’s abdomen with the long harmonic scalpel, so named because it penetrates the skin using high-frequency sound waves, minimizing bleeding and reducing recovery time. He locates Syracuse’s hernia, about the size of a small potato, and pushes the tissue back toward the patient’s abdominal wall. The doctor takes two mesh plugs, each shaped like a tiny ballerina tutu, and secures the hernia in place. The procedure takes 25 minutes from initial cut to last stitch. 
 

 9:30 a.m. 

Dr. Phillip Jones peeks in 1-year-old Dylan Rose’s diaper and doesn’t need to investigate further. 

“There’s an old fungus among us,” Jones jokes, grabbing a pad to write a prescription for young Dylan’s diaper rash. 

His mom, 19-year-old Rebecca Rose, sighs. “I knew he had a rash, and I used everything I could think of, but it kept coming back.” 

Dylan’s red bottom — and a few pesky vaccinations — brought him and his mom to the University Osteopathic Medical Center in Parks Hall for a visit with Jones, head of the pediatrics department. It’s his job to make sure Dylan is living up to his 12-month-old potential — saying “mama,” teething, playing patty-cake and performing that adorable half-tip-toe, half-stumble baby walk. 

 “We’ve got some owies today, I see,” Jones says, looking at his medical chart. Dylan is due for a round of vaccinations: chickenpox, measles, mumps, rubella and whooping cough. 

Nurse Angie Jacobs sticks him swiftly in his chubby arms and legs, the paper on the table underneath him crinkling loudly as he lets out a shrill cry. Mom is relieved it’s over, happy to find a treatment for Dylan’s stubborn diaper rash and, most of all, comforted that he’s meeting his developmental milestones. 

“I like coming to Dr. Jones because he tells me everything I need to know,” says Rose, a single parent from Nelsonville. “He’s really good with kids, and he checks Dylan up and down.” 

10:15 a.m. 

Linda Miller’s mother died of complications from diabetes at age 53, and almost everyone in her family takes insulin. She suspects it’s only a matter of time before genetics kicks in. 

“I know I have a high risk factor for diabetes, and I don’t want to end up with it,” insists Miller, 47, as she looks at a diet plan prepared for her by Assistant Professor of Family Medicine Jay Shubrook, DO ’96. 

He guides her through lists of foods she should and shouldn’t eat — lots of protein, no sweets. She has hypoglycemia, or abnormally low blood sugar, often a precursor to diabetes. A range of symptoms — headaches, fatigue, nausea — brought her to the doctor several weeks ago for a blood test. Today, Shubrook shares the results. 

“I’m glad I know now,” Miller says. “I never was scared of diabetes until I started feeling sick. I keep thinking of my mom. She had diabetes, but she didn’t understand what it was doing to her body until it was too late.” 

Miller’s new diet should eliminate many of her symptoms. “The body is a well-tuned machine,” Shubrook says. “If you respect it and listen to it, you can stay healthy.” 

11 a.m. 

A 58-year-old farmer rushes to the emergency room with painful abdominal cramping. He’s a steak-and-eggs type of guy, a chain smoker who hasn’t seen a physician in more than 40 years. In the past four months, he’s lost 20 pounds. 

“So what are we gonna do with this man?” asks third-year medical student Amy Odom after reading the hypothetical patient case study to seven of her classmates. Students are examining the cases to prepare for clinical rotations at hospitals and doctors’ offices in the fall. 

Based on the symptoms, student Katy Kropf begins writing potential diagnoses on a board in front of the small Irvine Hall conference room: obstruction, gastroenteritis, diabetes, cancer, irritable bowel syndrome. At least one diagnosis is right: Tests come back positive for colon cancer. Students will need to investigate further before prescribing a treatment. 
Such scenarios teach students everything from how to think critically to the importance of spelling medical terms correctly — elements supervisory physicians will watch for during clinical rotations. 

 “This helps to prepare us,” Odom says. “After this quarter, we’ll be doing the same thing, except with real patients.” 

1:30 p.m.  

Although Barbara Ross-Lee hasn’t practiced medicine actively for several years, it seems she’s always on call. 
“Ed’s on the phone,” her secretary says, cracking open the door of the dean’s Grosvenor Hall office. 

“I have a marriage by telephone,” Ross-Lee sighs, smiling as she picks up the receiver to discuss with her husband a family member who needs medical advice. Stacks of paperwork and shelves of thick books — much of it related to today’s light-speed changes in medicine — loom close by. 

“Medicine never has experienced the kind of pressures and challenges that it has in the past 10 years,” says Ross-Lee, medical college dean since 1993. “We have to teach students to be learners because what they learn now will be outdated in a few years. They are in charge of their learning. It’s much different from going to class and trying to stay awake and deciding when to cram.” 

An aggressive supporter of America’s family physician, Ross-Lee says 90 percent of medical conditions can be handled by primary care doctors. Yet with today’s prevalence of specialists, family docs make up only 30 percent of the physician population. 

“They deal with the everyday issues of life,” Ross-Lee says. “They are the community doctors who can take care of the heart disease, the diabetes, the sore muscles and the diaper rash. If we’re going to be able to reach the point of universal health care, we’ve got to have primary care physicians.” 

The focus on primary care is one of the distinctive hallmarks of the osteopathic medical philosophy, she says. Along with stressing a preventive approach to health, doctors of osteopathic medicine, or DOs, employ a “total patient” perspective in which they examine all the factors — physical, emotional, environmental, cultural, socioeconomic — that may influence a person’s health status. 

3:30 p.m. 

Saving someone’s life takes practice and skill — and tolerance for the unexpected. 

“The person you’re working on is going to have eaten the biggest meal of his life, and it’s definitely going to come up,” warns Athens paramedic Amber Pyle as she demonstrates how to intubate a patient who has stopped breathing. “You have to be ready for anything.” 

And the life-saving technique must be done within seconds — with precise maneuvering and assertiveness. 

Pyle ticks off the steps: “The blade goes in and sweeps the tongue to the right. Then you slide the tube in the trachea — it kind of looks like cauliflower. Then you need to keep them breathing with the pump.” 

After practicing the procedure on a dummy, student Reggina Williams passes the intubation test but remains a little skeptical about her ability. She’s only beginning to apply the knowledge she’s learned in lectures and textbooks during her first two years of medical school. 

“It’s scary. I’ve already studied and learned the information, but when it comes to actually putting it to use, will I remember everything?” 

Similar thoughts cross the minds of students in a nearby classroom who are inserting IVs into each other’s arms during a practice session with nurses. Kim Volpenhein looks away as her classmate, Brian O’Mahoney, slides a needle into a vein. A perfect hit. He snatches it out and applies a Band-Aid to her pricked skin. 

“That wasn’t bad,” she laughs as he apologizes for some misdirected nicks. “We’ve gotta start somewhere.” 

Melissa Rake is assistant editor of Ohio Today. Marcy Nighswander is an associate professor of photojournalism at Ohio University and a former photographer for The Associated Press.