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A teachable moment....
Two Doctors Meet
The doctor walked out of one of his clinic rooms and told his nurse he thought he was having a stroke. By the time I saw him, he was nonverbal, globally aphasic, unable to move his right side, his brain filling with rapidly expanding hemorrhage. He didn't understand what I was asking him to do. He couldn't tell me what he was feeling, but he recognized my white coat. He recognized the tone in my voice. He recognized the expression on my face. He took my hand in his left hand and repeatedly squeezed it and looked me right in the eyes. There was a moment of connection. A moment where two people know what the other is thinking and feeling without a word passing between them. He knew this was bad. He knew I knew this was bad. He knew I was trying to help, but he knew that there wasn't much I could do. He was scared but also strong and courageous. He knew the situation and knew the likely outcome, and he was telling me that it was OK if it ended that way. That he knew I cared. It was a moment of peace. A man facing death, both afraid and aware. A man who was looking for that human connection. A man who had cared for others and comforted others his whole life was trying to comfort me while I tried to care for and comfort him.
The next morning that connection wasn't there. The light had gone out. His family knew. He had been the local small town doctor taking care of everyone for 30 years. He would not want to stop being able to care for others. I told them about the moment we had, and we cried. “It is what it is,” they said. He said it all the time. He was letting me know he was accepting his fate.
So we cared for him. We made him comfortable. He was not physically with us long, but his memory will be with me the rest of my life.
Sarah Parker, MD
Knoxville, Tennessee
Parker S. Two Doctors Meet. Ann Intern Med. 2018;168:160. doi: 10.7326/M17-1284
The doctor walked out of one of his clinic rooms and told his nurse he thought he was having a stroke. By the time I saw him, he was nonverbal, globally aphasic, unable to move his right side, his brain filling with rapidly expanding hemorrhage. He didn't understand what I was asking him to do. He couldn't tell me what he was feeling, but he recognized my white coat. He recognized the tone in my voice. He recognized the expression on my face. He took my hand in his left hand and repeatedly squeezed it and looked me right in the eyes. There was a moment of connection. A moment where two people know what the other is thinking and feeling without a word passing between them. He knew this was bad. He knew I knew this was bad. He knew I was trying to help, but he knew that there wasn't much I could do. He was scared but also strong and courageous. He knew the situation and knew the likely outcome, and he was telling me that it was OK if it ended that way. That he knew I cared. It was a moment of peace. A man facing death, both afraid and aware. A man who was looking for that human connection. A man who had cared for others and comforted others his whole life was trying to comfort me while I tried to care for and comfort him.
The next morning that connection wasn't there. The light had gone out. His family knew. He had been the local small town doctor taking care of everyone for 30 years. He would not want to stop being able to care for others. I told them about the moment we had, and we cried. “It is what it is,” they said. He said it all the time. He was letting me know he was accepting his fate.
So we cared for him. We made him comfortable. He was not physically with us long, but his memory will be with me the rest of my life.
Sarah Parker, MD
Knoxville, Tennessee
Parker S. Two Doctors Meet. Ann Intern Med. 2018;168:160. doi: 10.7326/M17-1284
