Reflections on a Death
As a resident in internal medicine at a 600-bed teaching hospital, I have cared for many dying patients and their families. These will be my most powerful and enduring memories, lasting long after the stressful call nights, the zebra cases, and any minor annoyances have faded. But nothing could have prepared me for the experience of taking care of my dying father or taught me more about the art of medicine.
My father, the son of an immigrant tailor, went to college and medical school on the GI Bill after serving 3 years in World War II. After a year of general internship, he practiced rural medicine in West Virginia and Ohio. He was the kind of doctor who never thought about charging patients who couldn't afford to pay. He responded to coal mining accidents, delivered babies, performed surgery, gave chemotherapy, and comforted the dying. He touched people's lives in ways they warmly remembered 30 years after he had left town.
He went on to train in general surgery, building in part upon the skills learned in his father's tailor shop. He spent the next 35 years in surgery, emergency medicine, and urgent care. An accomplished musician as well, he maintained an active interest in jazz and took care of some of the great jazz artists of the 20th century.
When he developed microscopic hematuria, he suddenly became a patient, and he didn't like it. His first instinct was to take a vacation with his younger children. When he returned, further testing revealed advanced transitional-cell carcinoma of the ureter. Surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation followed. I took him to his appointments and learned what it is like to spend countless hours in waiting rooms, and how fear of the unknown can cast a shadow over all things. All in all, he …
This 100-word excerpt has been provided in the absence of an abstract.
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