It’s Valentine’s Day 1997. I’m at Sacred Heart Hospital admitting a colleague’s patient—an elderly man dying of heart disease. On oxygen, gasping for life, he exchanges no words. His wife—unable to bear the pain of watching him die—leaves the room. So it’s just the two of us this Valentine’s Eve.
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After two decades of formal education, today I’m finally set loose with real patients. It’s the actual moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life.
We’re each assigned to a family doc for the month. I scroll down the list of third-year medical students, place my right index finger beside my name,
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Evan, a retired police officer, calls for an urgent appointment. I can hear the angst in his voice.
“Sure Evan, come right over.”
An hour later, he arrives in obvious distress. “I gotta show you something, Doc.” We proceed to the exam room. He pulls his pants down and points to his left testicle.
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Doctor revived after suicide. Here's what he says.
