DOCTOR’S LOUNGE OR HIGH SCHOOL CAFETERIA?

Wellness has to start with kindness, doctor to doctor.

I’ll admit—it was an unusual offer for the group finishing their lunches in the Doctor’s Lounge at one of the largest teaching hospitals in Canada (Foothills Medical Centre).

“Do you want a cookie?” I asked the group of three male doctors. I was handing out cookies as part of a physician appreciation event hosted by the Medical Staff Association. Looking around suspiciously, one of the surgeons hesitantly answered;

“Sure.”

“What’s your name?” I asked, trying to be friendly.

“Umm… Doctor [so and so],” he responded with a tone that mixed apprehension and authority.

“Oh, in that case, my name is Dr. Bourque, but in here, you can call me Marie Claire. No need to refer to me as ‘Doctor’—we’re all doctors here!” I responded, trying to hide my annoyance.

He looked embarrassed. “Oh! I thought you were someone’s secretary! Well, thanks for the cookies. What kind of doctor are you?”

I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. We were in the doctor’s lounge. They were in scrubs. I was handing out cookies. I suppose that was enough to make them think I was a secretary.

“A psychiatrist,” I said.

“Oh no!” another surgeon chimed in. “Are you analyzing us now?” he joked, and they all laughed, pretending to feel comfortable.

“Of course not,” I lied, smiling coyly. “I don’t work for free,” I said smoothly, a response I’d had far too many chances to practice.

But why did they assume I was a secretary? Yes, I was passing out cookies, but doctors can do that… can’t they? Can’t we be kind to one another, even in an academic center where everyone is competitive, busy, and sleep-deprived?

I moved to Calgary three years ago to start as a Staff Physician right after residency. I was pumped! With a mountain of student debt to pay off, I was ready to start saving the world. I was familiar with the city since I’d gone to medical school here, so I figured I’d fit right in. But as I walked into FMC on my first day, I was reminded of how some of my classmates used to call it the "Death Star." Why? Because it was big, intimidating, and the people who worked there were as miserable as the Empire.

But surely, I thought, those memories weren’t accurate. I was new and needed friends. Maybe my cheerful energy would be a breath of fresh air in this place! I was excited to meet people and decided to start in the doctor’s lounge. Needless to say, making friends turned out to be much harder than I’d expected, and not for lack of trying. I made small talk. I held doors open. I was kind and pleasant, but no one seemed to care beyond what was socially required. Sure, I wasn’t perfect—there were days I was grumpy and glued to my iPhone—but in my quest to connect with people, I observed a lot. Because, you see, the thing about being a psychiatrist is that you can never really turn it off. I began carefully observing social patterns, behaviors, and attitudes in the lounge (while sitting by myself, of course).

What I observed was absolutely fascinating. Even though we don’t like to admit it, hospitals are a lot like high schools, and the doctor’s lounge is like the high school cafeteria. Just as in high school, there are unspoken rules about how things work. The social dynamics play out in the wards and halls, but they’re especially magnified in the microcosm of the doctor’s lounge. And just like in high school, there are cliques. Yes, cliques.

The first factor determining where you sit is rank: Staff physician > fellow > resident > medical student. You see this hierarchy play out every hour in the lounge. The medical students, with their short coats and terrified expressions, stand out. The residents, jaded and sleep-deprived, look perpetually behind on everything. The fellows are often seen with the staff or leading the charge, with an air of well-deserved pride. The staff? They’re the ones buying everyone’s coffee, comfortably secure in their status as people who actually get paid.

Next is specialty. The OR crew reigns supreme in the informal social hierarchy. Surgeons and their best friends, the anesthetists, rock matching seafoam scrubs like N'SYNC rocked denim, claiming the best seats and control of the TV remote. They are the “cool kids,” self-proclaimed. Internists and neurologists stick together, and though they don’t mix much, they’ve earned the “geek” title by being the doctors who know more than everyone else combined, which commands respect. Family doctors? You won’t find them in the lounge—they’re too busy with their patients and their cool lives outside the hospital. The psychiatrists? Hit or miss. They’re a scattered group, rarely seen in the lounge, but when they do show up, they’re easy to spot—they never wear scrubs or white coats, and they’re probably analyzing you, even if they don’t mean to.

Emergency docs, on the other hand, are the charismatic creatures who swoop in and out, greeting at least half the room. They’re happy, fit, and carry themselves with about 12% more confidence than the rest of us (except for the surgeons—surgeons radiate about 85% more confidence).

Then there’s the generational divide between the Baby Boomer/Gen X physicians and the younger Millennial doctors. The older generation, hardened by years in the trenches, often views us Millennials as “lazy and entitled” because we prefer not to work past 5 p.m. We Millennials, in turn, sometimes view them as sacrificing their own health unnecessarily. We like each other, but there’s a bit of distrust on both sides.

So, maybe those surgeons weren’t scoffing at me for offering cookies. Maybe they were scoffing at me for being a young, female Millennial not wearing seafoam green scrubs. I was trying to engage one of the "cool kids" after all.

My plea to you? Be kind. Say hello. There are always new staff, residents, fellows, and medical students at FMC (and other hospitals), and it’s a scary place—even for someone outgoing enough to hand out cookies to the cool kids. Introduce yourself to someone new. Step outside your clique. Offer a seat to someone who looks lost, stressed, or hungry. Buy someone a coffee. Smile. Hold the door open.

The doctor’s lounge may feel like a high school cafeteria, but the solution lies in something much more basic: the kindergarten lessons we all learned. Don’t be mean. Be nice.