I recently read in the American Medical Association’s newsletter, an excerpt from Thomas Graboys, MD’s recently published memoir, Life in the Balance. Dr. Graboys is a nationally renowned Boston cardiologist who at age 61 stopped practicing medicine because Parkinson’s disease was aggressively attacking his body and his mind. He was cherished by his patients not only for his clinical skills (he was part of the “Dream Team” of cardiologists assembled to care for Boston Celtics star Reggie Lewis after he collapsed on the court) but for his humanistic approach to practicing medicine. Now, as a doctor with a devastating disease, his hard-won wisdom is incredibly poignant. Here are a few excerpts from his book:
A few days before a regular six-month appointment with my neurologist, John Growdon, in late 2006, I was asked what, if anything, I would like him to do for me that he wasn’t doing already. My answer was quick and sarcastic: “I’d like him to call me every month to ask how I’m feeling,” I snapped, as if a busy doctor with hundreds of patients in his care would have time for that.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my glib remark cut close to the truth. I want to be on his radar screen. I want him to be thinking about my case, not just when I am in his office, but when he reads about new treatments and new insights into Parkinson’s and Lewy body dementia. I want him to be turning my case over in his head once in a while, and I want to know that while there is nothing that exists today to reverse my dementia, he is thinking from time to time about how to make my life better.
Here Dr. Graboys writes about those small, but precious, gestures that can make all the difference to a patient.
In my own practice, I developed a keen sense of just how deeply appreciated and how profoundly comforting small acts of kindness and mindfulness can be for the patient and his or her family. Dropping in on a hospitalized patient at the end of a busy day, not to check the chart or to do a quick exam, but just to say “Hello, I just came by to see how you are. Is there anything you need?” Calling a patient at home a few weeks after their annual visit to see how their new diet and exercise program is progressing. Writing a letter of condolence to the family of a patient who has died (a sorely neglected necessity, in my view). These small acts say to the patient and the family, “I know you ache, I know you suffer, I know you are in pain,” and allow doctor and patient to meet on the common ground of their mutual humanity.
That section reminded me of what Kenneth B. Schwartz, a Boston healthcare attorney, wrote in a story for the Boston Globe Magazine about his struggle with lung cancer, which he succumbed to in 1995. “I have been the recipient of an extraordinary array of human and humane responses to my plight. These acts of kindness - the simple human touch from my caregivers - have made the unbearable bearable.”



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