April Ascher, M2, Class of 2028
I knock on the door,
clipboard in hand, heartbeat racing.
The cold, hard plastic chair remains—
but I no longer sit in it.
No Longer the Patient
Tag: Compassion
The Sound of Healing
Jonathon Liu, MS3, Class of 2025
Throughout my clerkships, I have encountered many patients, each teaching me valuable lessons about disease processes, pharmacology, and the underlying science of medicine. However, beyond the technical knowledge, it is the patient interactions that I cherish deeply. My experiences have also underscored the importance of bedside manners and the establishment of a strong rapport with patients. The art of delivering compassionate, patient-centered care is fundamental, enabling physicians to truly connect with their patients, understand their experiences, and facilitate more effective healing. Humanism is, indeed, a quintessential element in medicine. During my Internal Medicine Clerkship, I had an encounter that brought this abstract lesson to life—fundamentally shaping my approach to medicine.
In the ICU, I met a patient grappling with unstable atrial fibrillation and a host of cardiovascular complications as a direct result of poorly managed type 2 diabetes mellitus. Yet, his physical ailments barely scratched the surface of his suffering. Initially, I entered his room to gather his medical history using the comprehensive approach taught at my home institution—covering chief complaints, medical history, family history, social history, and more while simultaneously being expected to efficiently collect and report the necessary information to our medical team. However, our conversations soon unveiled a narrative steeped in frustration, anxiety, and a profound sense of abandonment. He shared his long struggle with type 2 diabetes mellitus and the daunting side effects of metformin that had overwhelmed him—nausea, vomiting, bloating, and a repulsive metallic taste. When he sought help, his concerns were dismissed, leading him to resort to unproven supplements. His condition deteriorated, necessitating insulin, which he avoided due to fear of experiencing similar or worse side effects.
Recognizing the depth of his disillusionment, I made a commitment as his student doctor to work to unpack his fears and concerns. I promised my patient that I would advocate for him to my medical team. Day by day, beside his bed, our conversations blossomed beyond healthcare, touching upon his life, fears, hopes, and dreams. I learned of his service as a war veteran, his passion for exploring local restaurants, his and his wife’s adventurous spirits, and his profound kindness and love for his family. Our conversations became something we both looked forward to daily. These moments of shared humanity reminded me of the significant impact empathy and active listening can have on kindling a relationship with my patient.
Together, we navigated his health fears, exploring alternative treatments while his concerns and preferences were at the forefront of all decision-making processes. This patient-centric approach reignited his motivation to manage his diabetes, marking a pivotal shift in his treatment journey. By forming a strong bond through daily interactions, I became a more effective advocate for him, amplifying his voice, supporting him through his improvements, managing side effects, and navigating setbacks.
This experience reinforced a fundamental truth: healing transcends the physical aspects. Medicine demands humanity, which can only be achieved through nurturing strong, trusting relationships with patients. When we take the time to genuinely connect with our patients, listening intently and empathizing deeply, we can significantly transform the quality of their healthcare. At the heart of medicine lies this simple, profound principle: to care for another is to see them, hear them, and stand with them in their moments of vulnerability. This encounter has indelibly shaped my understanding of what it means to heal, reminding me that the core of humanism in healthcare is the profound connection between a doctor and their patient.
Delivering Care
Marisa-Nicole Zayat, MS4, Class of 2024
“Patients do not care how much you know until they know how much you care,” my dad, a physician, told me as I started my clinical rotations. These words have echoed through my head during many patient encounters.
During my obstetrics and gynecology clerkship, I assisted on Jane’s cesarean-section. In awe of the surgeon’s skills, I carefully observed as the team operated. The skin and fascia were dissected, the uterus was exposed, the baby was delivered and immediately whisked by the NICU team out of the room, and Jane was sutured layer by layer. The operation was uncomplicated, so the surgeons went to their next procedure. Jane was left alone, lying on a narrow, cold OR table. I heard her say, “it hurts, goodness, it hurts so bad.” I wiped her tears and gently held her hand while providing comfort and reassurance. It was all that I could do. The next day I could not stop thinking about Jane. I felt compelled to check on her, and she welcomed me with a sadness in her eyes—she could not visit her baby in the NICU since she was non-ambulatory. I offered to take a video of Lucy, which we watched together. Tears rolled from Jane’s eyes, but these were different; these were tears of joy. The following day during rounds, I found Jane to be distraught. She had to send her older kids to her parents in Missouri since she did not know when she was going to be discharged. “I don’t know when I will see my kids next,” she shared. Tears of helplessness streamed down her face. I encouraged her to share her concerns with the medical team. I let my attending know about the situation, and he reassured her that she would be dismissed in the next day or two. When I reported when she would be reunited with Lucy and the rest of her family, she was relieved and finally beamed with delightful hope.
Another patient encounter comes to mind when reflecting on lessons of empathy in medicine. Sarah, a 24-year-old, was admitted for labor, which was complicated by fetal bradycardia. She was quickly rushed to C-section, leaving her mother behind to wonder what might happen next. I stayed by her mother’s side and comforted her during this time of uncertainty. Six months later, my dad came home, excitedly announcing that one of his patients told him that she had met me while her daughter was delivering. She shared the story and told him that I was very kind, compassionate, and made them feel at ease. What a privilege for me to be there, I thought to myself.
As a physician-in-training, I feel honored, humbled, and grateful as patients allow me into their lives at times of vulnerability and need. Medicine is truly the art of healing, for health is the product of a nourished body, spirit, and mind. My dad’s words seem to echo even more true as I further my training. What distinguishes an outstanding physician is the empathy and compassion that they have for their colleagues and patients—caring makes all the difference.
Patients are People
Tyler Elmendorf, M3, Class of 2025
My first day as a third year medical student I anxiously waited in the neurology resident workroom as the team was assigning patients to students. The last two years of my life were in preparation for this moment; however, I was still overwhelmed with a feeling of inadequacy.
I soon found myself knocking on the door of a sweet 75 year old woman who was admitted for neurological deficits. Sitting tucked in her bed, she patiently answered my questions before we started looking at the cute pictures of her grandkids tapped to her walls. We shared a moment talking about her family, who was very dear to her but unable to visit her during her stay in the hospital.
Later that afternoon a team of two residents, an attending physician, and myself entered her room to update her on the results of her MRI scan. You could see the confusion on her face as the team explained her new diagnosis. She attempted to take notes on the discussion, but quickly gave up as she was unfamiliar with how to spell transverse myelitis. Seeing her disappointment, I turned to a new page in my notebook and wrote in big letters “TRANSVERSE MYELITIS.” When the team left the room I tore the page out and handed it to her. In that moment, her expression of confusion immediately subsided as she shot me a smile and a heartfelt thank you.
After rounds, I stopped by her room to check on her. She looked me in the eyes and explained how grateful she was for that simple gesture. She felt embraced by the people of the hospital, and that the individuals providing her care, truly cared.
I think about this moment often. While in many cases I can’t change the diagnosis, treatment, or outcome, this moment serves as a personal reminder of the kind of impact I can have when slowing down and thinking about the person in front of me not as a patient but as a person.
The Road to Healing
Micah Vander Griend, M3, Class of 2025
A memorable event occurred while on my overnight trauma shift during my surgery clerkship, where I cared for a woman who had suffered a wrist injury while motorcycling with her boyfriend. Beyond addressing her medical needs, I was able to attend to her emotionally—something that can easily be forgotten amidst the pandemonium on the trauma service. She was scared, in pain, and felt uncomfortable with the experience of being unclothed, having her broken wrist manipulated for x-rays, as well as having to answer the same questions about her health and the events leading up to her admission repeatedly. Although, at the end of my 24-hour call shift, I stayed with her. I felt a deep connection with her experience and pain and wanted to alleviate her suffering.
During our time in the stifling hot and impersonal trauma bay, I held her hand while she had her wrist soft casted, engaged in conversation, learned about her life, and offered her a distraction from the pain she was surely experiencing. As our dialogue progressed, she entrusted me with her fears about the upcoming operation to repair her wrist fracture. Drawing parallels from my own childhood experience of a similar injury, I shared my recovery journey and how I was able to regain complete function of my wrist.
Although the mechanisms of our injuries were different, her anxieties were alleviated by my similar situation. She felt an immediate sense of peace and hope in her eyes was reignited; she recognized that she, too, may be able to resume various activities that she cherished, such as riding motorcycles. I felt touched that, as we said goodbye, she thanked me for the time that I had spent with her, sharing that I had made this difficult experience more manageable and peaceful. This interaction was a powerful reminder that beyond the physical wounds we treat, the emotional and spiritual healing we facilitate is equally vital.
Med Intima 