Doctor reflects on residency struggles, speaks out after younger physician’s tragic suicide in Colombia
My first scolding hit me in the middle of a surgery. My superior stopped, stared at my hands, and said, “We do not train left-handed surgeons here.” He struck the back of my hand sharply, making the scalpel tremble between my fingers. Shame burned through me like acid, and I struggled to understand why being left-handed deserved humiliation.
- 4 days ago
December 29, 2024
Community gathers to honor Catalina's memory and pay tribute to her life. | Photo courtesy of Carlos Jaramillo.
MEDELLIN, Colombia — Starting medical school felt like stepping into an adventure film. My classmates and I spent countless nights in the library, its yellow light casting long shadows over worn anatomy sheets. The air carried the aroma of cold coffee, and the sound of pages turning filled the silence as we unraveled the mysteries of the human body together.
I still remember my first encounter with a real patient. My hands trembled, but the moment felt euphoric—a surreal confirmation of fulfilling a dream. Under the spell of my fascination for the precision of science and the daily miracle of restoring hope to others, everything seemed perfect. Yet, I began to realize that my desire to become a doctor may have blinded me, creating an illusion of perfection that did not truly exist.
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My residency: facing exhaustion, humiliation, and losing myself in the process
The most significant chapter of my life began with my residency, brimming with expectations and a determined stride. However, reality unraveled into a starkly different narrative. Beneath the hospital’s polished façade lay a battlefield, its corridors steeped in a suffocating silence broken only by patients’ muted cries. Fragments of our humanity eroded daily as we endured sleepless nights, missed meals, and humiliations disguised as teachings.
Exhaustion consumed us, leaving reflections in the bathroom mirror unrecognizable. The world blurred around us; patients and colleagues became indistinguishable. One night, a colleague collapsed mid-surgery, his face pale as a sheet. We had to carry on as though nothing had happened. The hospital transformed into an emotional concentration camp, stripping us of ourselves piece by piece.
Days merged into nights under the harsh fluorescent lights of operating rooms, every surgery a trial of endurance against the oppressive air and ever-present fear. I witnessed colleagues endure harassment cloaked in authority. “Come on, give me your testicles,” a professor laughed while taunting one of my friends, normalizing the grotesque. Speaking out meant professional exile. Others bore the weight of extra night shifts, shouting, insults, and even strikes to the hands as punishment.
Perfection was demanded—steady hands, sharp minds, swift decisions—while our bodies and spirits crumbled. We swallowed our rage and humiliation with cold coffee in the early mornings, pretending not to hear the shouts and insults echoing through the corridors. In those endless days and nights, the hospital revealed itself as a machine—one devouring the compassion and resilience.
Left-handed and lost: exhaustion and humiliation tested my will to be a surgeon
My first scolding hit me in the middle of a surgery. My superior stopped, stared at my hands, and said, “We do not train left-handed surgeons here.” He struck the back of my hand sharply, making the scalpel tremble between my fingers. Shame burned through me like acid, and I struggled to understand why being left-handed deserved humiliation.
After 36 sleepless hours, a senior resident summoned me at eleven at night to correct a minor file error. He could have fixed it himself but insisted I return to the hospital. Driving back, anger and emptiness consumed me as sweat made the steering wheel slippery. When I arrived, he had already resolved the issue. “Learn not to make mistakes,” he said, his sharp tone cutting deeper than any exhaustion.
That night, with wet eyes and a lump in my throat, I felt something slipping away—my humanity, my essence. Even patients witnessed my humiliation. A professor pointed out errors, painting them as unforgivable crimes. Smirking, he announced, “See? This is Jaramillo, the one who does not know anything.” The system, instead of prioritizing lives, fed on the sacrifices of those who sought to save them.
Every insult and belittling act chipped away at my spirit, leaving me questioning my place in a profession determined to crush rather than nurture its future healers. One night, after a brutal on-call shift, I stared at my battered, unrecognizable hands. These hands, once steady and full of purpose, now reflected someone buried under the crushing weight of routine, senseless orders, and relentless mistreatment. The pressure consumed me, seeping into every part of me, like a relentless drop of water carving through stone.
They did not seek skilled doctors but unbreakable machines
My situation spiraled into major depression. Rather than becoming a moment for healing, it turned into a public mockery. The hospital director, who diagnosed me, shared my condition with my superiors without my consent, turning it into a cruel anecdote. “Taken your antidepressant yet, Jaramillo?” they sneered during rounds, their sardonic laughter cutting through the air in front of patients and colleagues. Their taunts pierced my dignity like sharp darts. Exhausted and powerless, I lowered my head, each insult reminding me I was nothing more than a disposable cog in their relentless machine.
The pressure became unbearable. My hands trembled every time I picked up an instrument. Determined to recover, I stepped away briefly, but upon returning, the system delivered its punishment for my vulnerability. They assigned me medical boards every Tuesday and Friday, regardless of being on call the night before. I operated at dawn, made rounds, and spent sleepless nights preparing slides and mastering theories as if my life depended on it.
Those meetings aimed to humiliate. Questions came not as challenges but as traps designed to expose and shame. The message seemed clear: they did not seek skilled doctors but unbreakable machines, flawless at all costs.
One night, chaos consumed the emergency room as one of my patients fought for his life. He needed a central catheter immediately. Desperate, I called the chief of surgery for assistance. Forty agonizing minutes passed, and he never arrived. The clock forced my hand, leaving me with no choice but to act. I inserted the catheter, my hands steady but my heart racing. An X-ray confirmed the position, and the patient’s heart continued to beat. For a fleeting moment, I believed I had made the right call. Relief washed over me, a fragile triumph in the storm. But it did not last.
Writing my resignation: “I could no longer stay”
When the chief surgeon arrived and realized what I had done, his disapproval struck like a blade. “Who do you think you are to make such decision?” he demanded, his words cutting through the air. I tried to explain the urgency, but his ego outweighed reason. My actions, though they saved a life, bruised his authority. The sentence came swiftly: “You are grounded.” As punishment for acting to save a life, Ihe assigned extra shifts that very night. I felt like a criminal caught in the act.
Returning to my small, windowless office, I sank into the chair. For the first time in years, I felt no fear—just a cold, absolute certainty: I could no longer stay. That night, the pressure in my chest finally became an unbearable knot, compelling me to write my resignation letter.
The operating room’s echoes still filled my head—cold, metallic sounds and the weight of my colleagues’ and superiors’ faces looming like shadows. My trembling hands moved with a mix of anger and relief, knowing this act marked the beginning of my release.
The words flowed, fueled by years of silence and oppression. I recounted the relentless pressure, public humiliations, and exploitation that dehumanized and broke us. “I have dedicated my life to medicine, but I can no longer sacrifice my mental health and dignity” I wrote. Each sentence restored a fragment of the humanity stripped from me. As I finished, a deep weariness settled over me, paired with liberation. Staring at the letter, the final proof of my decision, I laid it on my desk, leaned back in my chair, and exhaled.
Twelve years on, Catalina’s tragic suicide inspires doctor to speak out again
The next day, with a mix of fear and resolve, I handed my resignation letter to my superiors. Their reaction, as expected, hit like a hammer. Silence weighed heavy, broken by murmurs quickly turning into criticism. Some dismissed my decision as cowardice, others as a plea for attention. However, I felt an unmistakable sense of relief. A few, sharing the same unspoken weariness, looked at me with quiet admiration. Though they may not have fully understood, they recognized a shift within me.
Messages of support began to trickle in. Doctors and students reached out, seeing resistance and hope in my decision. However, threats also emerged, attempting to stifle my voice. Deep inside, I knew I had chosen the right path. To remain silent would have made me complicit. Twelve years have passed since then, and I never returned. I rebuilt my life and continued practicing medicine with integrity.
Recently, sitting at a coffee shop in Medellín, a former residency classmate approached me abruptly. “Did you hear about Catalina Gutiérrez?” he asked. I had heard of her before, often mentioned in conversations about brilliant new medical talent. His next words hit me like a punch: “Catalina took her life.” As he recounted the details, I felt my stomach drop. Reading her farewell letter brought me back to the night I wrote my own.
Catalina’s final act reflected the very precision and skill demanded by the system. She anesthetized herself, made a meticulous incision, and severed her femoral artery with surgical exactness. Even in death, she exemplified the mastery expected of her. Her tragic choice underscored the unbearable weight placed on residents, a weight often crushing even the strongest among us.
Doctor exposes a systemic failure: honoring Catalina
Catalina, a 26-year-old resident at Javeriana University, shined with promise, passion, and dedication. Her story forced me to confront the enduring cruelty of the system, a hell claiming lives and crushing doctor’s spirits. Catalina became a mirror of my past fears and frustrations, a reflection of all the doctors still trapped within this oppressive cycle. Her loss carved a void not just in my heart but in the collective soul of a profession yearning for change.
To me, her death symbolized a systemic failure—a manifestation of the mistreatment and precariousness medical residents endure. I felt compelled to raise my voice as a doctor, not just for Catalina but for all those suffering silently in a system offering no escape. Though years have passed since I left the residency program, her loss reopened wounds I thought had healed. In many ways, we are still bleeding.
Through social media and interviews, I broke my silence, exposing the invisible epidemic preying on those dedicating themselves to saving lives. Speaking out made me a target for those who would rather preserve the façade than confront the truth. Yet, I refused to back down. Our mission cannot remain one of survival within this broken system. It must be one of transformation, to honor Catalina and ensure no one else endures what she did.
