The Next Generation
Fellow students have reminded me, as well, that we possess strong medicine--not the drugs we can give to patients but our words, the timbre of our voice, and the touch of our hands. A few months ago my classmate Julie, who was transferring her patient's care to me, brought me to his bedside to introduce us. A pungent sour odor wafted through the air. There was a pink tray by his side to catch his frequent vomiting. The thin, white-bearded patient greeted her like a close relative: "Julie, my darling, I've been waiting for you."
The man, recently diagnosed with end-stage lung cancer, was troubled. His wife had suddenly stopped coming to visit him in the hospital. He worried that she was too scared to see him go, that she could smell the aroma of death in the air. "Do I smell like death, Julie?" he asked, patting his lips after hocking up a small concoction of phlegm and blood. Julie placed her hand on his bony shoulder, bent over toward his straggly beard and took several deep whiffs. "Absolutely not. Don't you worry one more minute about that." He smiled, looking relieved, and then he thanked her. And I smiled too, to thank Julie for helping to restore my faith in this extraordinary relationship.
advertisement
