Room 124 (A doctor's tale)

Room 124

As a doctor you aren't supposed to get physically or emotionally attached to your patients. You're the person that delivers the best, and the worst news, to complete strangers. These are people you've only just met that have absolute faith in you and expect you to make everything better. They expect that smile on your face when you walk out of those surgery doors and approach them in the waiting room. Then, when you have to deliver the worst news, you're almost forced to watch these people day after day fall apart and break down. Your job is a curse and a gift rotating in perfect symmetry upon a surgical axle. As their world is shattering you simply give them a pat on the back and tell them it will be okay, even though deep in your heart you know it won't ever be okay. You tell them you're really sorry. What else can you do? You don't even know them, except as the patient's family and friends. Then, you head to the next patient's room and leave them to mourn. You learn how to see people as the next patient and nothing more because if you don't it will break you every time. These people that come to your hospital and depend on you to save their lives are simply just numbered patients. Their lives are your job, but not your concern once you leave that room. This is the sad reality of it, that to me you are just a numbered patient. At least, that's how I used to carry myself, until I met the five patients of Room 124 that changed my views (and life) forever.

-Robert C. Patrickson, MD