The Power to Heal

First-year medical students often underestimate the impact they can have on patients. I realized this back when I was a first-year, observing how my enthusiasm for patient encounters was overshadowed by my colleagues’ skepticism of their value to patients. At this point in our education, we’d barely mastered vital signs, and we were still learning how to obtain medical histories. We often blurred the boundary between past medical history and history of the present illness. We were still getting accustomed to wearing the short white coat that announced to the world we bore vast amounts of knowledge when, in reality, we were still struggling to master “the basics.” We could not diagnose, nor provide, or interpret test results. We could not write prescriptions, give medical advice, sign discharge papers, and certainly could not provide any surgical interventions. Although they were skeptical of our abilities, I could not fault my peers for protesting these interviews, which they worried would needlessly take up patient time. However, as a former hospice volunteer, I knew my colleagues were overlooking our most valuable skill. A skill, not reliant on tenure, yet one that proves valuable when science and medicine are not enough: compassion.

I was reminded of that skill when meeting a patient several years ago. After knocking on the door, I introduced myself and explained why I was there. “Hello, I am a first-year medical student. Is it okay if I speak with you about why you are in the hospital? I’m learning how to conduct medical interviews.” He quickly replied, “Oh, that’s fantastic. Of course. What do you want to know?” As we spoke, I learned he had recently been diagnosed and was receiving treatment for an extremely severe illness. He was highly educated, and extremely knowledgeable of his condition, which was evidenced by his extensive vocabulary and advanced use of medical terminology.

During our discussion, a nurse repeatedly checked his vital signs and administered medication. To my surprise, several times the patient politely asked her to wait or come back at another time so he could finish answering my questions. After thirty minutes, I could tell he had become just as invested in our conversation as I. The interview continued extremely well, until I inquired about his spirituality. That was the first time he paused. When I asked if his spirituality had helped him cope with his illness, he hesitated. Suddenly, he began to cry. I was shocked. He had not been very emotional throughout the interview. His facial expressions were neutral and his voice was matter-of-fact. However, my last question seemed to unlock an abundance of emotion. I struggled to find the right words, wanting to say something encouraging, but realistic, while giving him the opportunity to share more if he chose.

As I handed him a box of tissues, I softly asked, “What are you feeling?” Wiping away tears, he told me how hard it was to pretend to be strong when your body is weak. He told me he didn’t think he could still be the man he had worked so hard to become, that he missed his independence, and that in the months since his diagnosis, this had been the first time he’d cried.

After sharing these revelations, he apologized. “You don’t have to do that,” I said. “You’re human. It’s natural, and you needed to let that out. We all do.” We discussed the importance of hope and I reminded him that he was a fighter, who was making his family proud. Finally, I asked him about a history book at his bedside, a topic he had loved learning about since childhood. That’s when he began to vividly describe what he enjoyed most in life. Time flew by. We ended up talking for two and a half hours!

When it was time for me to leave, he struggled to prop himself up to shake my hand. “Thank you,” he said, clasping my hand. “I really needed that. Thank you for everything.” My last words to him were, “I’m so glad I could help. Please remember you are a fighter. And don’t forget that hope is strong. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

This encounter made me realize the significance of allowing patients the time to truly feel heard. Medical interviews are a means to procuring information about a patient’s health, but also a therapeutic way for patients to express their concerns, and confide in someone they trust. However, a white coat alone will not always be enough to gain that trust. That type of trust is gained when physicians prioritize the patients they treat, over the illnesses they hope to defeat. Moving forward, I aim to do just that.

In addition, this encounter made me realize the significance of establishing personal connections with patients. Half of the time I spent with this patient was focused on discussing his happiest memories. Although spending two hours with each of my future patients might prove to be unrealistic, making an intentional effort to discuss what brings them happiness amid their greatest life struggles is not. So, yes, as medical students, we may not be able to always answer patients’ questions, or be fully knowledgeable about their illnesses, but, we still have the power to help heal. During a time like this global pandemic, when many healthcare workers may feel powerless, a source of our power to heal may simply lie in our compassion, and ability to make those suffering feel heard.