REVELATION

The hour was late. The corridor was dark. As a young resident, I hurried through the corridor, trying to respond to the demands of the pager and eager to catch a few minutes of sleep. As I rounded the corner, I collided with a figure in black and stumbled backward. A gentle hand reached forward to steady me and a kind voice inquired if I was all right. Regaining my balance, I recognized the figure as one of the hospital chaplains and reassured him that all was fine. Soothed by the calmness of his manner, I allowed myself to sit and talk. His question was both direct and unexpected. He inquired why I no longer seemed to spend time with Mr. A, a man who had severe amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS). Everyone knew that his death was imminent and I responded that it was difficult to visit when the members of the medical team no longer had anything to offer. Father C asked a few questions, some medical and some personal. He probed my feelings about dying and the impact of my youthful experience with the death of my father in shaping my current thoughts and ideas. Slowly, gently, he led me to understand that once a cure was no longer possible, caring was still a major form of therapy for the patient. He described a far more valuable form of care available to the patient now that the medical possibilities had been exhausted—namely myself. He suggested that I get to know Mr. A: what he had done for a living, where he had lived, what he enjoyed doing, and how he had spent his leisure time. Father C helped me to understand that death was not a failure of medical therapy but rather the completion of a full and joyous life. I came to appreciate that Mr. A didn't fear death—I did. I realized that despite the fact that I had performed the history and physical examination on this patient and visited him daily, Father C knew far more about the patient than I did. The conversation took little more than ten minutes, but in that brief time I learned an important life lesson. I turned down the hall and dropped in on Mr. A. He was surprised to see me at this hour of the night since the medical staff made a quick visit in the morning only. For the remaining two weeks of his life, I learned about the person who was Mr. A and we became friends. I mourned, along with his family, when he finally died. But the moment of revelation remained. Thanks to Father C, I came to appreciate that the person, not the disease, should receive care. Care is the foundation of real therapy; the cure is just a bonus.

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