Latest Voices

The eternal goal for those in the medical profession is to accomplish treating, curing, and healing our patients. This has become particularly challenging with so many encounters now limited by Zoom, time constraints, masks, compartmentalization due to specialization, and shared anxiety due to the pandemic. But the challenge is one we must meet. The integrity of our profession depends on it.

I would make the case that listening is the universal medicament—an alchemy that transcends all else in clinical medicine. It is not limited by technical skill but instead is enhanced by the health professional’s willingness to be a witness

Since mid-January, I have focused on listening. One morning the phone’s ring pierced my slumber. I listened intently to my mother’s words and tone as she explained that my father was hospitalized. New urgency and concern cut through her usual anxiety, altering the quality of her voice.

While attending a music retreat several years ago, I had the opportunity to play a piano duet with a more experienced piano player. As we prepared for the recital, it became evident that it wasn’t enough to focus on my part. I also had to listen to what my duet partner was playing in order to make pleasant-sounding music.

Sometimes, when dealing with patients, we get the real “story behind the story” only at the end of the visit or after several visits.

I leaned toward the physician I was shadowing and apologized. I had a class to get to. She nodded and said, “No problem. Hopefully today was a good experience.” She didn’t shake my hand, as her finger was the only thing blocking a hole in her patient’s common iliac artery. I wished I could stay longer, but class called. Med school puts you in odd situations.

“There’s always time to check in,” my supervising physician told me the other day, offering to chat about a patient who was not doing well. Would it be unprofessional to tell her that my problem is wishing I’d checked in not with the patient, but with my friend who’s now gone forever?

On a cold, February morning in 2017, I received a phone call from the resident psychiatrist on the psych unit at University of Maryland Medical Center. He introduced himself as Dr. Shapir Rosenberg, the doctor taking care of my twenty-five-year-old son, Adam.

With his warm and patient voice, he said, “Your son entered the psych ER with a drug induced psychosis. He was admitted to the psych unit and stabilized with Haldol. He’s doing much better. I wanted to reach out and ask about his history. Is this a good time to speak?”

Prior to my illness, I never had a regular doctor. I felt no need for one. My experiences with my small-town doctor growing up had convinced me that doctors cared. Doctors listened. Doctors would help when needed.

When I was hit with the very difficult neuroimmune illness, myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS), I was terrified. The symptoms knocked me into outer space; they were unlike anything I had experienced before.

Making my rounds, I come to Room 603. As I put on my PPE, I see that my patient is desaturating, despite the heated, high-flow oxygen I placed her on yesterday. She isn’t in distress, but the numbers on her monitor tell me where things are headed. When she was admitted two days ago, we talked about the possibility of her needing a breathing tube if she got worse. At that time, she told me that, yes, she wanted everything done to save her life if it came to that.