Wander & Wonder

For my school, I was asked to write an essay about “The Physician as Healer: Relating to the Patient”. I wanted to share this essay on my blog as I think it showcases a bit what it feels like to be practicing in this field.

From the outset, the clinical facts were disheartening. My patient, a vibrant woman, not much older than I am, had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of ovarian cancer that had metastasized to nearly every major organ in her body. This diagnosis was a devastating blow, one that abruptly derailed plans for starting a family that she had envisioned with her partner at a fertility clinic. Instead of the joyful anticipation of building a future together, an ultrasound had revealed an ominous ovarian mass, marking the beginning of a downward spiral into a reality she had never imagined.

In the weeks that followed, the hospital became her reluctant home. The holidays, which are traditionally a time for celebration and family, were spent undergoing relentless tests, preoperative preparations, and the looming prospect of major surgeries. Every moment was a reminder of the fragility of life. For me, as a medical student only beginning my journey, this was the challenging patient interaction I have encountered thus far.

Initially, I struggled to navigate the delicate balance between clinical detachment and compassionate engagement. Faced with the enormity of her suffering and the impending challenges, I found myself clinging to the safety of medical parameters: tracking the improvement of her bowel movements, noting the intensity of her abdominal pain, and monitoring her hydration status. I was afraid that delving too deeply into her as a person, rather than merely as a patient, might blur the lines of professionalism or, worse, lead me to exhibit pity, an emotion that felt both unhelpful and self-centered in this context.

The presence of her partner intensified my internal conflict. His quiet support and tender care made me think of the comforting presence of my own loved ones. My mind was filled with questions: How would my partner react if I had this diagnosis? What would I do career-wise? Would I continue medical school? Or would I go off and travel the world? And what about my dog, would he notice me getting weaker over time? All of these thoughts accumulated, eventually growing exponentially, to the point where I found myself holding back tears when I would enter her room.

A turning point came unexpectedly on a seemingly ordinary day. On my daily afternoon rounds, I noticed a priest in her room, a presence that radiated warmth and compassion. As a Christian myself, I hold my faith close to my heart, yet I had long kept my personal beliefs at a cautious distance from my professional interactions. The priest’s presence, with his gentle smile, encouraging words, and beautiful Scripture readings, stirred something deep within me. It reminded me that beyond the charts and lab results, there was a living, breathing person with a history, dreams, and a resilient spirit. The revelation was profound: patients are not defined solely by their diagnosis. They are multifaceted beings with hopes, fears, and unique narratives that deserve to be acknowledged and nurtured.

Inspired by this newfound perspective, I decided to bridge the gap between my role as a medical professional and the need to offer genuine human connection. I began to open up to the patient and her partner. Our conversations slowly transcended the confines of medical updates and ventured into more personal territory. I shared with them how my faith played an integral role in my life and how it helped me cope with the daily challenges of medicine. In turn, they confided in me about their own backgrounds and the religious beliefs that provided them solace during such turbulent times. This exchange created a space where vulnerability was not a weakness but a shared strength, a mutual acknowledgement of the human condition in the face of profound adversity.

We talked about topics that seemed trivial yet were profoundly significant in the context of her journey. I mentioned my dog, whose unconditional love and playful antics always managed to lift my spirits after a long day at the hospital. In response, she and her partner spoke of a dream travel destination, a place they longed to visit once the chemotherapy was underway and life could, in some small measure, return to normal. In these moments of genuine human connection, the conversation shifted from the harsh reality of her diagnosis to the possibilities that still existed within her life. She even shared her deepest fears with me, revealing not just the physical pain but also the existential terror of facing mortality at such a young age.

One of the most poignant moments of our encounter occurred when she entrusted me with a task that carried both practical and symbolic significance: removing her JP drain. Despite the inevitable discomfort the procedure caused, she placed her trust in me, a trust that was both humbling and deeply moving. After the procedure, she expressed her gratitude, acknowledging the pain but also the care with which it was administered. In that moment, I realized that healing is not about erasing pain but about walking alongside the patient through their pain with empathy and sincere willingness to help.

As my time on this service came to an end, I was filled with a sense of bittersweet reflection. On my last day, as I said my farewells, the patient’s partner approached me in the hallway. In the presence of my supervising staff, he expressed heartfelt thanks, remarking on how much he appreciated not only my medical professionalism but, more importantly, the warmth and genuine care I had shown. His words, “Your people-skills and warmth are what really touched our hearts”, resonated deeply with me. They affirmed that the role of a physician as a healer transcends technical proficiency, and that medicine involves healing the soul as well as the body. It is all too easy to become fixated on a patient’s diagnosis: labeling someone simply as “the patient with stage 4 ovarian cancer.” Yet, this experience reminded me that patients should not be defined solely by their illness; they are individuals with dreams, goals, and values that persist despite even the most severe challenges. When I connected personally with my patient, it created a positive feedback loop: the more I took the time to understand her beyond just her illness, the more she trusted me with her feelings and care. This genuine connection enriched the experience not only for her, but also for me, I felt more confident, purposeful, and fulfilled as a caregiver. I am grateful to this patient for reminding me why I wanted to go into medical school, and for reminding me that even when life is at its worst, there is always a meaningful way we can help make it just a little better.