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My Love Affair With Jude
Larry Bauer ~
In August 2016, our daughter Rachel and her husband Alberto traveled up from Memphis with their two children, Noel and Jude, to visit my wife and myself in Dayton, Ohio.
One afternoon during their stay, I was sitting in my favorite reading chair beside our kitchen area. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw seven-year-old Noel playing. Beside her, lying tummy-down on the floor, was three-year-old Jude. He was in a trance, fixated on the screen of his LeapPad computer tablet, his “most favorite toy in the world.”
Seeing Jude there triggered something inside me. We’d always gotten along well. He would come to me, and I’d pick him up, cuddle with him and carry him around. He enjoyed being
What I Did for Love
Amy McVay Abbott ~
My husband, who’s had type 2 diabetes for twenty years, had been struggling for a long while to lower his hemoglobin A1C–a number that measures how well he’s managing his blood sugar over time. When he and I finally investigated the issue, it turned out that someone close to him was thwarting his efforts.
This person is an addict. Her drug of choice is sugar–often candy no self-respecting adult should want, like Milk Duds or Necco Wafers. She’d order a lemon-drop martini and be just as happy if it came without the vodka.
Houston, we have a problem. That problem is me: a wife who couldn’t fully accept her spouse’s health problems.
The Patient I Didn’t Want
Krithika Kavanoor ~
When I first met Ms. Ruiz, I was barely three months into my first year as a family-medicine resident. I was working harder than I’d ever worked before, and continually facing new challenges. I knew that I was learning, and so I persevered, but opportunities for self-doubt were abundant.
Maybe that was why Ms. Ruiz made such a big impression on me.
A middle-aged woman with a small frame and short black hair, she’d been admitted to the hospital overnight for severe abdominal pain and jaundice. Resting quietly in her bed, she listened intently to my colleague’s presentation of her case, her sharp eyes fixed on his face. I too listened carefully, and gathered that she would be
The Man Who Handed Me His Poop
In broken English, against the backdrop of the emergency department’s chaos and clatter, Mr. Simon relayed his story: unintentional weight loss, gradually yellowing skin, weeks of constipation. He punctuated his list of devastating symptoms with laughter–exaggerated but genuine guffaws.
Over the next few days, as the medical student responsible for his care, I was also responsible for handing him piece after piece of bad news. An obstructing gallstone in his bile duct. Actually, an obstructing mass. Likely a malignancy. Chemo. Radiation.
With each update, he would grin. And then he would laugh.
Miraculous Recovery
During my third year of medical school, I completed a clinical rotation in surgery. I was certain that it would be horrible. I envisioned myself in the OR, getting lightheaded, passing out onto the sterile field and being yelled at by my attending physician. I worried that the medical knowledge I’d worked so hard to learn would be neglected in favor of memorizing the steps of surgical procedures. My parents, who are both physicians, warned that I’d just be holding retractors for hours.
I want to interact with my patients, I fretted, not just hover over them while they’re anesthetized.
Although I tried to keep an open mind, I knew that I was destined for a miserable time.
What About Me?
It’s Monday morning, and I’m the attending physician starting a week of inpatient service in the hospital. On my patient list is a man named Earl, age ninety-one. He’s outlived his siblings, his first and second wives and all of his peers. After seven decades of smoking, his lungs are failing; he carries a diagnosis that reads “severe emphysema.”
The sign-out note from Earl’s previous doctor reads, “Daughter and son-in-law met multiple times with the team last week.” As his medical decision-makers, they’ve been waffling about what to do for him. Last week they said, “Do everything,” then “Take a comfort approach,” only to wind up back with “Let’s get him strong enough for rehab.”
I’ve been putting off
About Last Night
H. Lee Kagan ~
It was a night like many others. I was taking call from home for my medical partner and myself. My wife and I had settled in, planning to stream the new season of Goliath on Netflix. But the internet was down, so we were watching a talent competition on regular TV instead.
At 8:30, my phone rang.
“Hello, this is Dr. Kagan.”
A long pause, then a tentative “Hello….”
I muted the TV. “Can I help you?”
More silence, then I heard a woman’s voice uttering inarticulate sounds.
“Who is this?” I asked. “Are you looking for the doctor?”
I’m Still Here
Inez Martinez as told to Erin McCoy ~
Editor’s Note: Having just finished her first year of medical school, Erin McCoy became a summer intern for Pulse and embarked on a project to collect patient stories through interviews. One day, a family-medicine resident at a Bronx family health center told her about an interesting lady in Exam Room 8. “I go there,” Erin says, “introduce myself and explain my mission. She agrees to speak to me, on one condition.”
As long as you don’t ask me how many drinks I have in a month.
I promise her that I won’t, and press “record” on my iPhone.
I’m a survivor of 9/11. But I don’t want to talk about that.
A Poetic Stroke
Thomas E. Schindler ~
Editor’s note: This Sunday will mark the last day that we accept poetry submissions this year. We offer today’s story in honor of the poets who are sending us their creative works for consideration.
For the past few years, since becoming a grandfather, I have indulged in an afternoon nap. Last year, while arising after a nap, I fell on my face–hard. Cautiously, I got up, and then carefully lay down again, confused about what had just happened. Whatever it was, it passed–and I tried to forget about it.
Next morning, my reflection in the bathroom mirror startled me with a garish reminder of my fall: a purple bruise beneath my left eye. Also, something was wrong with my
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