I no longer see the tubes, the apparatus, or hear the respirator’s cadencing rhythm. Your face is calm, relaxed, somewhat naked without your glasses. It seems fuller somehow; I hope (in vain?) that it is swelled with peace (and nothing sinister). I kiss your shiny forehead, saying hullo. It would have been on your cheek, but this is tricky at the moment. I expect your smile to leap up as it always does but your face is impassive.
My Clientbecomefriend Read More »
As an educator, my students reacted not to the universities I attended, the degrees I earned, or my experience in the profession, but to my enthusiasm, creativity, compassion and respect. Assuming that I understood the material, they cared more about how I treated them as individuals.
This is a story about failures. First, it’s about my inability as a pediatric hospice physician to do the one most important job in this tender space. Second, it’s about well-meaning, loving parents’ inability to do their part in that job.
Jacob was a smart, funny, elementary-age kid, great with Legos.
Dear Pulse readers,
I was a medical student, nearing the end of my very first clinical rotation–surgery–and I’d had enough.
I’d made a breast-cancer patient weep as I’d unsuccessfully tried to extract blood from an artery in her wrist.
September More Voices: Bedside Manner Read More »
