Page 193 – Pulse

Deathbed Epiphany

11 Comments / Stories / Christina Johnson

As a family-practice resident, I’ve found that a premium is placed not only on my clinical acumen but also on how well I respond to my patients’ mental and emotional experience of illness.

Yet the work of learning to be a doctor is just that–work. And in overwhelming amounts. Time management becomes ever more vital: As I take the time needed to gently break bad news and to console a patient, I must also stay conscious of the next patient’s appointment, the next phone call to make, the next exam to study for, the next lecture to attend, the next research project to complete and the next practice guideline to learn.

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waiting for the train

3 Comments / Haiku / Stephanie Friedman

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A Stroke of Faith

Leave a Comment / Prayer / Remya Tharackal Ravindran

“SIGNED OUT AGAINST MEDICAL ADVICE,” declared the last line of the ER physician’s note, bold and foreboding.

I quickly skimmed through the rest of his chart. Mr. Lopes was an elderly Haitian man, a recent immigrant, who had visited the local emergency room for a bad headache, only to discover that his blood pressure was astronomical. Apparently, Mr. Lopes and his family considered him too sturdy a man to be retained at the hospital overnight, labeled as sick. So he fled.

And here he was, weeks later, to meet his new doctor. “BP: 190/100” read the nurse’s note in red.

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Another Night in the ER

4 Comments / The Middle of the Night / Greg Mahr

The November snowstorm is a surprise. The ER will be full of cold and homeless, coming for a meal and a place to rest.

I see the ones who say they are suicidal. That claim guarantees an overnight: a metal bed with a black foam pad, a clean sheet, turkey on white wrapped in cellophane and, if there’s any left, a precious six-pack of Oreos.

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What If I Die Now?

1 Comment / The Middle of the Night / Christine Marete

The mood was grim in our house on this night, as it always was when my mother was at her sickest. My mother was suffering at the hands of what I know now to be systemic rheumatoid arthritis: the pain was clearly eating up her soul and body alike.

I looked at her as I helped with her evening pills, hoping they would bring some magic to lift the cloud hanging above us. I looked at her hands, so deformed by this monster of a disease, and I feared I might cry in front of her. I knew she wouldn’t like this at all but I couldn’t shake the voice of her saying that she thought she would die tonight. Or did she say “wished”?

I was twelve years old at the time and the meaning was probably lost to me. She did in fact catch the teary look on my face, and truly like a mother she knew what was on my mind. “What if I die now, would it be so bad?” she asked. I mumbled something to the effect that this was not happening but of course evaded the real question.

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Stories on Hold

Leave a Comment / The Waiting Room / Remya Tharackal Ravindran

Ms. Darcey had been my patient for over four years. She was one of those fortunate few who made it to the doctor’s office only for their yearly physical exam. One day she showed up unexpectedly, in a wheelchair, her head tilted to one side. She had arrived at the diagnosis before I could make an attempt.

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We Got the Call

1 Comment / The Middle of the Night / Jacqueline Dooley

Note to reader: The following is a verbatim transcription of what I posted to my blog the night we got the call from the liver team that they’d found a viable donor for my 11-year-old daughter who, at the time, had a 24 cm tumor which spread from her portal vein to her liver.

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Paying It Forward

10 Comments / Stories / Caroline Wellbery

Caroline Wellbery

In the middle of a five-way thoroughfare intersection, with the early-morning sun’s glare on my windshield, I hit the curb of the median and blew out my left front tire. Amid stopped traffic, I ran to collect my escaped hubcap, whose silver eye stared helplessly from among the automotive debris of previous accidents.

A policeman blocked the lanes until I could pilot my car into the gas station on the other side of the street. The attendant perched behind the bulletproof window told me that his mechanics wouldn’t be in until 9:00 am. I called the clinic to say I’d be late to work, but no one picked up the phone.

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Patience

4 Comments / visuals / Remya Tharackal Ravindran

Remya Tharackal Ravindran

About the artist:

Remya Tharackal Ravindran is an internist/geriatrician based in Massachusetts. “Photography is my dose of meditation in action. It straps me to the present moment and forces me to look, rather than merely see. Sometimes we are blinded to things that are staring us in the face, until we begin to ‘look.’”

About the artwork:

“This picture was taken during a regular office visit. This puppy, the constant companion of one of my disabled patients, was snug in the handbag as usual, waiting beside the patient’s daughter. Though the puppy’s stomach was growling with hunger, it stayed in the bag throughout the visit, waiting for me to finish the physical exam. Perhaps her patience with the doctor was a reflection of her devotion to her ‘master.’ “

Visuals editor:

Justin Sanders

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When the Phone Rings at Night

4 Comments / The Middle of the Night / Sara Cohen

“I’m at the hospital,” my mother said.”Talk to the neurosurgeon.”

The ringing phone had roused me out of a deep sleep. Already, my heart was racing, and I was wide awake as the doctor began to speak.

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Halloween Heartache

3 Comments / The Middle of the Night / Ronna L. Edelstein

It was one hour past midnight, late enough that even the college students who lived in the apartment building across the street had changed their Halloween costumes for pajamas, turned off their lights and fallen into a sugar-induced sleep. I lay in bed, remembering the Halloweens of my youth when Dad and I had gone trick-or-treating together. He had protected me from the goblins, witches and ghosts that had roamed the streets of our neighborhood, and I had shared with him some of the candy I accumulated.

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His Favorite Time

Leave a Comment / The Middle of the Night / Giamila Fantuzzi

I had known since the beginning that it would happen at night, his favorite time. He had always preferred the peace of darkness to the bustle of day. How many times had I woken up to find him still working at his desk? How many times had I left for work in the morning shortly after giving him a good-sleep kiss?

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