Toughen Up – Tough Love or Bullying in Medicine?

alecia1

A senior medical student ponders when does tough love blur into bullying territory? Is it used to excuse bad behaviour or can it push us to be more resilient?

The registrar was getting ready to close the patient on the operating table and asked if I wanted to scrub in to assist. I was two weeks into my surgery rotation and trying to do my best not to have a panic attack.

After several close calls by the scrub nurse who Baricinix 2 mg her best to make sure I didn’t contaminate myself or breach the sterile field, I was in.

However, not long after my agoraphobia started up— pinning me by the throat against the wall, causing my chest to tighten, my breath to shorten and my forehead to sweat like Niagara Falls at the thought of not being able to escape the operating table once scrubbed in.



“Would you describe yourself as a high-stress person?,” asks the surgical registrar.


The registrar splits his attention between suturing the patient’s fascia; steadying his hands to ensure he doesn’t nick the vital organs underneath, and considers what to say to me.

“I don’t mean to come off as rude. But you do need to hear this.”

Another pause as he ties off another suture.

“You need to be prepared for a lot of people to be angry at you. Sometimes I’ll say something harsh and I can see you freeze up, and take it really personally.”

True. Already I feel like I need to prepare a defense. I force myself into a calm and let the words flow over me, trying to hear what he has to say and not react to them straight away. But I already know it’s true. So often, I’ve ruminated on some criticisms this registrar has given me, which has sometimes gone on for days, with me catastrophising on said thoughts, letting it impact my mood.

“You’re going to have a lot of harsh bosses, some people who are going to yell at you, and you can’t be so reactive,” the register adds.

Some feedback I had received from my last consultant had talked about a certain fragility from my end, which I dismissed at the time in righteous indignation, but perhaps I shouldn’t have been so dismissive.

“You need to be able to brush off what people say. Take on what they’re saying, because they will have some feedback you need to take on, but not let their tone get to you,” the registrar goes on.

There was a lot of truth to what he was saying. He also commented on how I was so rigid around him, and even walking into the sterile field, I was just so stiff and on edge, which was true, I was anxious as heck, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

The next hour was spent in gracious frustration— the oxymoron is most certainly real. I was shown how to suture, and how to properly assist in closing up. “You’re getting better,” he reassures me.

Later that day I went home, and slowly digested the conversation I just had.

I came to the conclusion that I was unnecessarily anxious in theatre. Seriously, what was there to be anxious about? I attempted to banish my agoraphobia and come to the realisation that there was honestly nothing to be so worked up about. With this in mind, I tried to change my mood for the rest of the rotation. And I did, which is a miracle by all standards relating to my mental health experience. As the rotation progressed, my anxiety lessened while I became more familiar with the theatre and the staff. I acknowledged this is how I work and actively tried to initiate a change in my behaviour. I almost forced myself to be more relaxed, putting things in perspective, questioning why I was actually anxious, and for once, actually settling. I got through the rotation, not having the best time, but I got through it.