I have an ongoing problem with one of my clinic’s most expensive machines. I can’t share specifics, but let’s just say it’s been the bane of my existence for far too long. The technicians responsible for its upkeep seem to be on a never-ending rotation in my office, trying to fix the latest glitch. Lately, I’ve found myself dreading their visits so much that I’d rather hole up in my room than face them.
Today was no different. The technician—someone closely tied to this frustrating equipment—was back, and I was already steeling myself to avoid any interaction. My manager approached me, saying this person had a medical issue, and asked if I could help. Every instinct told me to say “no”—to claim a conflict of interest or plead a jam-packed schedule. Yet, as a doctor, I can’t just walk away when I know someone is in need. We hashed out a likely diagnosis, and I agreed to do the necessary procedure at the earliest opportunity, promising the highest discount I could manage.
In truth, I felt conflicted. I’ve grown so resentful of this equipment and the people tied to it, but the burden of withholding care weighed more heavily on me. Nobody else could see this patient anytime soon; they would be forced to wait months. It dawned on me—once again—that practicing medicine isn’t about convenience or personal feelings. If I have the ability to help, I must help.
So, I did his procedure the next day, skillfully, masterfully. When it was done, he got off the bed in disbelief. The pain he’d carried for so many years was just—gone. He hugged me, then walked around the room as if testing whether it was really true. He tried to speak, but his words came out in a flood of amazement and thanks. Then he hugged me again. In all my years as a physician, only one other man had ever hugged me: a patient whose life I saved when I caught a tiny, early tumor buried at the edge of a ten-thousand-image full-body MRI scan. I do get hugs from patients, but usually from older ladies—particularly those from cultures where hugging is common—after a successful pain management procedure. This was something else.
All of this has me thinking about what it really means to practice medicine. Sometimes, you have to swallow your pride, frustration, or personal preferences and do what’s right. It reminds me of parenting, where you can’t withhold love just to teach a lesson or punish someone. You give it because you have it to give, because it’s your responsibility, and because—ultimately—it’s what you signed up to do.
In the end, that technician’s relieved smile and heartfelt embrace made the hassles of machine repairs and office politics fade into the background. For a moment, I was just a doctor helping a fellow human being, doing something vital I’m trained and called to do. Whether I like this person or not, or how many times his visits have tested my patience, none of that mattered once I stepped into my role as a healer. Love and care, once you’re in a position to provide them, must flow without hesitation.