![]() ![]() The panda painting, she writes, won first prize in a student contest. Katherine.” I learn that Cheryl has taken up painting and takes classes every Wednesday night. The photographs are of paintings: a cat, a bowl of fruit, a panda bear nuzzling its child. Out fall a few photographs and a folded up piece of lined notebook paper, complete with ragged edges torn from a spiral binding. I carefully open the envelope and pull out a card. Photographs from her most recent Disney cruise? Last time, she had written an entire letter to me on the back of small pieces of scrap paper she found while waiting in line at the post-office, stapled together in order. I flip the envelope over to find a Mickey Mouse sticker festively decorating the seal. Quickly, she added, “He really admires you.”Īs I sort through the stack of the day’s mail, I find a lemon yellow envelope addressed in large rounded cursive. A few minutes later, he excused himself to get something to eat from the cafeteria.įinally, I could revel in the joy of Cheryl’s recovery. We exchanged pleasantries though I secretly hoped to disappear into the faux wood floors. I tensed as if an intruder, caught red-handed. She smiled back, about to speak, when her eyes settled on the door behind me. ![]() “Hi,” I started, “I heard it went great.” The next day, when I came by to find Cheryl, she was thankfully alone, sitting up on the side of the bed, legs dangling as they had the first day we met. I wished her good luck one last time and slipped away, feeling hopeful and anxious for her surgery on the backdrop of my ever-present guilt. In a few minutes, the anesthesiologist came to bring her back into the O.R. “Have you met my husband and son?” she asked. The familiar inner monologue started: Was I genuinely concerned? Was I trying to cover up my real interest in a research report? But, I cared about this woman. I pulled open the smallest amount of curtain to allow my body to slip through. What did they know about me? Did they know I was writing a case report? Self-consciousness descended upon me like a surprise rain shower in August. I approached the drawn curtain and briefly hesitated as I heard many voices accompanying hers. “Bed seven,” the clerk said in the pre-operating suite. The time her mother embraced me at the end of one of Cheryl’s follow-up clinic visits, whispering in my ear, “Thank you for taking such good care of my daughter.” The times I met her in the outpatient laboratory, ultrasound or pre-op clinic. On the day I borrowed the department’s digital camera to take pictures of parts of her body that made her blush. In the weeks to follow, I repeated this to myself over and over. Even without the report, I would want to help you. But she quickly put me at ease: Yes, she nodded. Would she let me? I hung those words on a line between her and me, embarrassed to have my underthings aired, flapping in the wind. I had my own confession to make: I wanted to write her case report. Would I meet her at her next appointment? Judd, Cheryl’s confessions spilled out in small waves around my ankles. As he wrapped up, I sensed her unanswered questions and lingered behind. Her eyes darted back and forth from him to me she was overwhelmed and seemingly apologetic. Judd laid out plans for her upcoming surgery: what tests had been ordered, where and when. Judd had excitedly told me about her case, mine was the wide-eyed expression: such a rare diagnosis-one seen only on board exams, not in real life, unless you’re lucky. I guess I didn’t know exactly what to expect. I would later discover we were the same height. Her big blue anxious eyes made her seem child-like. Martin (or Cheryl, as she insisted) looked over at me and gave me a hesitant but kind smile. Chretien, a resident working with me today.” I stood deferentially to the side, allowing Dr. A wisp of a woman in her early 50s with short curly brown hair and pale legs that dangled limply from underneath her paper gown sat perched at the end of the examining table. She won’t bite.” I took a deep breath as I always did prior to meeting a patient for the first time and knocked.įrom within, I heard a muted “Yes? Come in.” Outside the closed examination room door, I paused to shoot a quick glance at my preceptor who gave me a nod and smile, as if to say “Go ahead. ![]()
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