An excerpt from Born to Heal: Medical Narratives Set to the Soundtrack of Classic Rock
Dr. Raul Morales found himself alone in Exam Room 3, which had become a storage space, gazing at the dimming autumn light. The clinic was hauntingly silent. A full hour had elapsed since his last patient departed. Instead of tidying up, he cradled a lukewarm coffee, wrestling with an undefined discomfort. Retirement loomed just a week ahead. At nearly seventy-five, with more than twenty years as a community internist, one might anticipate a sense of relief. However, all he noticed were fissures: patients left unserved, a daughter’s childhood overlooked, distant colleagues, research paths not explored. Screenings failed to prevent the cancers. The comforting words he didn’t express to worried patients. He hadn’t anticipated feeling this way.
His former student, now a palliative care doctor, broke into his thoughts. “Raul? You look downcast.” She flashed a weary smile. “Have you ever questioned whether it was worthwhile? The years, the nights, the dedication?” She paused to fetch a small book, one she shared with patients harboring similar uncertainties. “I’d like to read you something,” she stated. “It’s a fable.” “Oh. Is this a novel evidence-based intervention?” he inquired. “Just allow me to read.”
“Once upon a time, there was a farmer with two watering pots,” she started, reciting from memory. “One pot had a crack and felt ashamed, believing itself broken and useless. Nevertheless, the farmer carried it each day. While water leaked, unnoticed by the pot yet observed by the earth, flowers flourished along the route.” Raul listened, something inside him beginning to soften.
“The cracked pot generated life, unconsciously fostering beauty.” Raul crossed his arms, his eyes shimmering. “See?” she persisted, “You were the cracked pot.” “I still am,” he responded, “I just don’t know if it was sufficient.”
“Do you recall Mrs. Davenport?” she asked. “The patient with metastatic colon cancer who outlived her prognosis by three years?” She credited you for viewing her as a person. Then there’s Darryl, the student you kept enrolled, now an ICU nurse.” Raul shook his head. “I wasn’t looking for major accomplishments.” “While you walked, small pieces of you nurtured life. You weren’t able to see it—you weren’t meant to.”
He laughed in disbelief. “I thought I was losing water.” “You nourished people,” she said. “Your care wasn’t ostentatious, but rather a consistent, unassuming love. Like James Taylor’s song, you loved them quietly. Your love soaked in and lingered.”
Raul faced the window once more, the golden sunset casting light over the parking lot and bushes—perhaps he had planted them. They thrived.
Contemplating Erikson’s Integrity vs. Despair, he recognized it wasn’t tranquility but viewpoint. Despair thrived on unvoiced regrets. Integrity was about being—showing up, cracked yet present. He stretched, feeling sore yet complete. Perhaps he hadn’t squandered his water. Perhaps he had nurtured a verdant path.
Arthur Lazarus serves on the editorial board of the American Association for Physician Leadership and is an adjunct professor at Temple University’s Lewis Katz School of Medicine. He has penned narrative medicine texts and the series Real Medicine, Unreal Stories, with his latest novel, Standard of Care: Medical Judgment on Trial.