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Gift of Gratitude
We all remember our patients who die, though the first patient death really stands out from the rest. This was certainly true for me.
I was just starting the second year of my internal-medicine residency. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone die, but it was the first time I’d seen someone who’d been alive and well, and talking to me that morning, be dead by the afternoon–a shocking dichotomy that haunts me to this day.
Joe
You’re in the hospital again, propped in bed with pillows keeping you from listing to one side or the other, and I’m sitting on a pink pleather chair I’ve pulled up next to the bed.
We watch Dr. Phil until 4:00. I always find this show melodramatic, but you seem riveted. You want to know about these people, their lives, their lies, what they’ll do with the information unveiled to them.
When Dr. Phil signs off, I switch on the Classic Country music station, and we talk.
An Exception to the Rule
“I usually talk through the procedure as I go,” I say, pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. “So you aren’t surprised by anything, so you know when to expect a sensation.”
The patient is lying on the table, eyes fixed upwards. One of the ceiling panels is illuminated with the green leafy branches of a tree—an image meant to calm and soothe, though I doubt it’s doing much for this woman.
“Or I don’t have to talk,” I tell her, arranging the instruments on my sterile tray as silently as possible. “We can be quiet or chat about other things.”
The World’s Second-Best Baklava
In 2013, as a hospitalist, I attended the annual conference of the Society of Hospital Medicine. This meant traveling from my home base in Ohio to Washington, DC, the site of that year’s conference.
The second day was winding down. Colleagues, new friends and countless strangers were scurrying to their rooms to freshen up and get ready for a night out on the town, where they’d continue to mingle, share research and professional achievements and scout out career opportunities.
I had other plans, however.
Heart Sounds
At his mother’s request, or rather pestering, a forty-year-old male presented to an urgent-care center after several weeks of progressively worsening flu-like symptoms. His mother asked that the providers please check her son’s heart. They replied that there was no need and sent the man home.
His symptoms progressed, and the pair went to the ER, hoping for better results. Again, the mother asked the doctors to check her son’s heart.
Broadway Bound
Ever since his adolescent years, my son and I have had an ongoing conversation (you might call it an argument) about my habit of speaking too frankly when sharing my opinions, which I do frequently.
Or, as he puts it, I have a big mouth.
And Then the Dog Died
Muscle memory. It’s an amazing thing. It’s what keeps my fingers playing Für Elise on the piano long after I’ve stopped taking lessons. It’s the pressure I sense in the crook of my elbow from linking arms with my late husband. It’s why every time I go for a walk I feel the pull of the leash from my dog Elvis, even though he too is gone.
Muscle memory holds on to real memories. And each time my muscle memory kicks in, I want to link arms with my husband, play Beethoven on the piano and walk my dog.
What Makes a Good Therapist?
I thought she could help me with night terrors, this nice new therapist. The night terrors started a few weeks after my son went to prison–five words I had never thought I would string together.
I’ve had nightmares since childhood, but these are extraordinary. I tumble into slumber, then wake myself screaming bloody murder, like the woman in Psycho.
Contented, Though Demented
The last two years of my father’s life were interesting. Our previous roles were reversed: Dad was now the child, and I the adult. I moved him to a new city and state, getting him close enough to keep an eye on him. He was already suffering from dementia, a realization I came to after he had forty thousand dollars stolen from him.
That’s right. Forty thousand dollars.