Notes

MY PATIENT at the Medical ICU (MICU) liked writing notes. He was intubated when he came in, so I never really got to hear him speak. He relied mostly on hand gestures, but even those had their limitations. His wife had a brilliant idea: maybe he could write things down instead. Every time I dropped by his bed, I saw a notebook and a black marker pen beside him. I would ask him a question. Slowly he would jot the answer down.

I knew he hated the discomfort of having an indwelling catheter inside him for days because his note echoed frustration and anger. I had to explain to him that was what he needed because we wanted to monitor his urine output. When he experienced shortness of breath, he would write down, "Naghihingalo na ako" (I'm gasping). He was my patient for my two-week stint at MICU, and I became rather close to his family, especially to his wife and daughter, who would always ask me how he was doing.

A few days ago I learned that he had died. Crying, his daughter showed me a note my patient had written just before I left MICU. "Naalala mo ba ito, Doc?" she asked. Of course, I did. How could I forget?



I still don't know what I did to merit that kind of approval from him, but somewhere along the way, despite my own shortcomings, and by God's grace and enabling alone, I realize that I must've done something right.