Why I do medicine
“Ma’am…ma’am? Are you in any pain?”
I laid a hand on her shoulder, she gently stirred, her eyes opening halfway but alert. She nodded weakly, closing her eyes and taking a few heaving breaths amidst some winces. It was post-operative day 0, and my 76 year old patient had just returned from an exploratory pelvic surgery for a suspicious mass in her abdomen.
“Are you having any chest pain or difficulty breathing?” I asked, watching for signs of confirmation. She shook her head “no” and pawed lightly at the side of the bed, trying to pull herself up against the wrinkled sheets that lightly covered her small frame. I looked back at the resident, who nodded at me and stepped forward.
“Mr.s J?” she asked, “we’d like to talk to you about what we found in the OR.”
A stirring in the corner of the room from the chair, a woman in her mid-forties peeled off a blanket and stepped out of the shadows. She approached the bedside and sat next to my patient, intertwining their fingers and giving a squeeze; the daughter telling the mother that she wasn’t alone. Daughter comforting mother.
“Preliminary pathology reports from the surgery confirm that it is cancer. While we were able to take out most of the tumor, it has spread to the surrounding tissue.”
Mrs. J’s face remained still as she listened, the daughter’s voice quavering as she asked questions, occasionally dabbing the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. Treatments, options, prognosis….none of it good. Palliative care at best. No, more surgery won’t help, the cancer has spread too far. Yes, we are going to do all that we can. Each question answered as well as it could.
Small sobs at the edge of the bed. Mrs. J squeezed her daughter’s hand without looking. Mother comforting daughter.
“If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to ask. We are here ‘round the clock.”
We turn and begin to leave the room, my whole insides feeling robbed of words in a way that I hoped wasn’t expressed on the outside.
“Doctor, may I ask you one more question?”
The daughter called from the room behind us. The resident held up one finger at me, indicating for me to wait a moment as she went back in the room, closing the door behind her.
I leaned up against the wall near the door, one foot up against the white paint as I heard the sounds of muffled conversation and beeping monitors. I stared at the wall across from me, still wondering what to say, even to myself. The door opened and the resident stepped out, and we began to walk down the hallway. “Do you have any questions about what went on back there?” She looked at me as I shook my head no, attempting a look at placidity, and obviously failing. She smiled back, knowing far too well that this is the education that can’t be taught in the pages of books or in hours of lectures.
Our discussion turned to other patients and lab values as we planned out the remaining few hours of my first night of call. Overhead, the paging system chirped once and a song began to play: a lullaby, announcing the birth of a baby down on the L&D floor. The resident stopped, pointed up at the ceiling and stated with a large smile, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new one!”
I stopped and glanced up at the speaker, a smile creeping up on my face. “Welcome to life!” my resident spoke aloud, softly, to no one in particular. She was speaking to the newborn, but I took it as my own. Life comforting me.
We rounded the corner of the hallway, leaving the sounds of gentle sobs echoing in my mind from the room behind us, while I imagined the cries of new life reverberating down another hallway just four floors below.
Life comes full circle, and I was at peace.
That, my friends, is what medicine is all about.
I laid a hand on her shoulder, she gently stirred, her eyes opening halfway but alert. She nodded weakly, closing her eyes and taking a few heaving breaths amidst some winces. It was post-operative day 0, and my 76 year old patient had just returned from an exploratory pelvic surgery for a suspicious mass in her abdomen.
“Are you having any chest pain or difficulty breathing?” I asked, watching for signs of confirmation. She shook her head “no” and pawed lightly at the side of the bed, trying to pull herself up against the wrinkled sheets that lightly covered her small frame. I looked back at the resident, who nodded at me and stepped forward.
“Mr.s J?” she asked, “we’d like to talk to you about what we found in the OR.”
A stirring in the corner of the room from the chair, a woman in her mid-forties peeled off a blanket and stepped out of the shadows. She approached the bedside and sat next to my patient, intertwining their fingers and giving a squeeze; the daughter telling the mother that she wasn’t alone. Daughter comforting mother.
“Preliminary pathology reports from the surgery confirm that it is cancer. While we were able to take out most of the tumor, it has spread to the surrounding tissue.”
Mrs. J’s face remained still as she listened, the daughter’s voice quavering as she asked questions, occasionally dabbing the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. Treatments, options, prognosis….none of it good. Palliative care at best. No, more surgery won’t help, the cancer has spread too far. Yes, we are going to do all that we can. Each question answered as well as it could.
Small sobs at the edge of the bed. Mrs. J squeezed her daughter’s hand without looking. Mother comforting daughter.
“If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to ask. We are here ‘round the clock.”
We turn and begin to leave the room, my whole insides feeling robbed of words in a way that I hoped wasn’t expressed on the outside.
“Doctor, may I ask you one more question?”
The daughter called from the room behind us. The resident held up one finger at me, indicating for me to wait a moment as she went back in the room, closing the door behind her.
I leaned up against the wall near the door, one foot up against the white paint as I heard the sounds of muffled conversation and beeping monitors. I stared at the wall across from me, still wondering what to say, even to myself. The door opened and the resident stepped out, and we began to walk down the hallway. “Do you have any questions about what went on back there?” She looked at me as I shook my head no, attempting a look at placidity, and obviously failing. She smiled back, knowing far too well that this is the education that can’t be taught in the pages of books or in hours of lectures.
Our discussion turned to other patients and lab values as we planned out the remaining few hours of my first night of call. Overhead, the paging system chirped once and a song began to play: a lullaby, announcing the birth of a baby down on the L&D floor. The resident stopped, pointed up at the ceiling and stated with a large smile, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a new one!”
I stopped and glanced up at the speaker, a smile creeping up on my face. “Welcome to life!” my resident spoke aloud, softly, to no one in particular. She was speaking to the newborn, but I took it as my own. Life comforting me.
We rounded the corner of the hallway, leaving the sounds of gentle sobs echoing in my mind from the room behind us, while I imagined the cries of new life reverberating down another hallway just four floors below.
Life comes full circle, and I was at peace.
That, my friends, is what medicine is all about.