I have been a doctor for thirty years, but there are scenes of pain that I really cannot get used to. I always violently hold back my tears when I see two elderly parents at the bedside of their suffering disabled daughter. It is not true that life is beautiful, it is a good stereotype for those who do not spend it between a hospital bed and hope.
I read her entire anamnesis with the wonder of someone leafing through a fictional tale. You say to yourself 'I can't believe it', it was like reading the table of contents of a treatise on bad luck. In the end, I was reminded of what an old chief physician of mine used to say: 'When there is a patient with more than one serious pathology, thank them, one of them won't come to you', and he would promptly remark to those who looked at him sideways 'it's not cynicism, it's statistics'. I try not to overdramatise, but he used to do that.
Her ordeal of pain began early on and has never stopped. I think she slept more time in a hospital bed than in her own home. Alongside her were always her parents with the polite gestures that only grief can allow to follow any etiquette, because that is what grief teaches, polite respect for life.
It is not true that those who have pain draw other lessons from it. 'Other' is just a rhetorical alibi that serves to exorcise its presence, to give it a sense of everyday life. No patient stands as a champion of suffering, it is a title that no one chases, except the banality of those sitting on the other side doing the crossword puzzle.
Taking her back to the operating room was my easiest choice, but the most difficult for her, a very fragile patient. Waiting one night was the coin to flip in the air. Heads "I made the right choice!", tails "why did I make this choice?".
Eventually it is her father who takes my hand. "Doctor, do what feels right to you. If it goes wrong, we won't look for culprits, we haven't done that for ages." I searched his weathered face, never discounted. "Doctor, let's wait."
At 11pm the ward calls me, my stomach is empty. "Doc, it's to tell you the parameters: stationary. The surgical drain still has blood." I end the call, twist the coin between my fingers, I promised her I would wait, I will wait. I stayed all night with the phone next to me, slept in my suit. It never rang again.
That very morning I enter the ward, she is no longer in her bed. I ask with my heart on my throat, thinking the worst. "Doc, we moved her closer to our room as you told us yesterday, to monitor her better." My saliva dips into my stomach. She sees me, "I'm better. There is no more blood in the drain", she says, "Thank you." I say, under my breath, "thank you for what?, it was you who convinced me to wait". Now she smiles, she is really better and I would like to walk out of that room dancing.
I go for breakfast, I still have a coin in my pocket, I toss it joyfully on the counter of the shop. Heads: a coffee, tails: I take the brioche too. Heads. This time the toss came out wrong. you can't win every time. I'll get that brioche in another lucky chance.