Humanism 2009 - Western University of Health Sciences

My hospital room seems cold and gloomy
this morning—appropriate considering
how I am feeling. The burly nurse with the
constant scowl has been coming in and out
of the room all morning, routinely stopping
to take blood or turn off the screaming IV
machine. She kneels over me and asks me
a question. I begin to answer, but
immediately halt. Is that me speaking?
What did I even say? She repeats her
question, and again I repeat my gibberish.
She leaves muttering under her breath that
she can’t understand me. Scared and
confused, I attempt to lean forward and sit
up to get out of bed and use the restroom. I
can’t. Why can’t I move the left side of my
body? Is this what my life is going to be like from now on? Unable to communicate? Unable to walk? Unable to
even get up to go to the restroom on my own? I feel like I am living my own funeral.
There’s a knock on the door, and six people wearing white lab coats and stethoscopes walk into the hospital room
and stare in my direction. The older gentleman begins by asking me how I feel today. Before even giving me a
chance to answer, the man begins speaking again in a monotone, telling me that I suffered a stroke and have lost
function of the entire left side of my body – as if it were the most ordinary, inconsequential news in the world. He
goes on to list the medications he has put me on and continues to tell me he is going to schedule me with a speech
therapist to help facilitate my recovery. In the meantime, they are working on getting me into a skilled nursing
facility because, clearly, I can no longer live on my own or take care of myself. The social worker thinks they have
found an “acceptable” place to send me and – after pushing and pushing – they think they will be able to get me
out of here by tomorrow. With that, and with a final muttered “have a nice day,” the six white coats turn around
and begin walking out of the room.
“Thanks a lot,” I wanted to call out. “I will definitely have a nice day.”
The list of patients we follow each day becomes just that – a list. In our haste to check off each item on the
list, we forget that these are not mere tasks - they are people. Each patient carries a list of his own - family,
friends, dreams, goals, and aspirations. How easy it is for those of us working in the medical profession to
forget this – to view patients as a mere task of the work day rather than as people who, more than
anything, just want a chance at life. People whose lives are turned upside down by the words we utter.
People just like us.
What if you suffered a stroke? What if one day you woke up and couldn’t talk? What if the biggest
challenge of your day became getting out of bed?
What would you expect out of your doctor? What kind of care would you want?
Think about it.
Do you have your answer? Good. Now do it. ■
A WesternU DO student discusses treatment with a patient at
Citrus Valley Medical Center, West Covina, Calif., April 2003.
HUMANISM IN THE HEALTH SCIENCES 2009 • VOL. 12 | 39