Eternity
Sean Hollebeck
A wounded warrior presents to the clinic.
Buzzing through your mind are all the details necessary to perform a clinical interview: Chief Complaint, History of Presenting Illness, Review of Systems, Physical Exam, Assessment, Plan. The foundational understanding and knowledge necessary for all physician trainees drilled into your cranium since day one of medical school.
All seemingly rendered moot the moment you step through the exam room door and see the human being before you, weeping into his hands.
No script to fall back on, no high-yield factoid to regurgitate, no multiple-choice answer to pick, nothing to truly prepare you for what is to come.
You sit down and stay quiet, waiting for the soldier to pour out what needs to be expressed.
“I’m losing my mind. My wife is gone. I don’t care if I die today.”
You stay quiet. Air in the room sits still, watching, listening.
A moment of eternity passes by.
A dying nun presents to the clinic.
You think about the correct combination of words to soothe a woman of the cloth. Clutching her cross necklace in her hands, she forces a soft, melancholic smile as you approach the seat next to her.
Brief introductions and pleasantries are exchanged and the elephant in the room trumpets for attention.
“I know I will pass soon, so don’t worry about making me feel bad. I’ve made my peace with God.”
The instinctual apology at the back of your throat is swallowed down as your mind races trying to think of a more appropriate response.
Another moment of eternity passes by.
A homeless woman presents to the clinic.
Unable to fathom the depths of her struggle on the streets, you enter the room with the wavering and irresolute hope of being able to empathize and take care of her.
Blistering skin kissed by the sun. Disheveled and malodorous. Arms dotted with poorly healing scars and insect bites. Dental decay. The sad and familiar sight of one forgotten and abandoned by society. You realize she’s the same age as you.
She quickly avoids eye contact in an ashamed and embarrassed manner.
“Don’t look at me, I look like shit right now.”
Physical form fades and a suffering soul shines through. Any reply feels hollow.
Eternity crawls by.
A concerned daughter waits in the OR waiting room.
Neglected abdominal pain, written off as reflux, ignored until the point of being unbearable. Overwhelming acute cholangitis with sepsis. Poor surgical candidate due to elder age and chronic heart disease.
“I’m so worried about her, she’s my mother, my rock. I’m her only family left in the world.”
I consider telling her the surgery will proceed smoothly and without any complications, but I know I cannot make that guarantee. Are false hope and artificial promises what she needs to hear?
Eternity settles between us.
Within all these interactions, eternity presents itself in similar yet distinct ways. Eternity presents an opportunity for unspoken communication to be established between the souls.
We are taught that clinicians are healers because they cure diseases, suture wounds, and alleviate hardships. But there is a divine discovery that can be made in our field once we realize that our presence is the first and most powerful tool. In such moments, when we exist in the brief eternity of a fellow human being, we experience the pure service to humanity.
When faced with suffering patients, we are humbled by our limitations as healers. We hope that healing will begin.
We hope the soldier contends with his current hardships and is granted a small moment of peace. We hope the nun embraces her fate, secure in the understanding of her sacred immortality. We hope the homeless woman reflects on the path of her life, realizing the burdens she has carried alone. We hope the daughter relaxes during discharge from the hospital, reassured that her concern was reflected in her mother’s care.
For when you do inevitably speak, your words are akin to the first note of a symphony. Eyes meet and two people see each other instead of through each other. Hands are held before they are shaken. Healing will then begin within eternity.
Sean Hollebeck is a 4th-year medical student at A.T. Still University-School of Osteopathic Medicine in Arizona. Originally from Texas and having lived in Rhode Island and California, he’s dedicated to alleviating human suffering through the practice of medicine and conveying his thoughts on life, medicine, and happiness through writing. When he's not immersed in the medical world, he enjoys spending time with his wife, indulging in Netflix, engaging in Dungeons and Dragons with friends, and reading sci-fi and fantasy novels. His essay explores the concept of 'eternity,' inspired by his experiences during family medicine rotations. As a writer and a prospective physician, he understands ‘eternity’ as a therapeutic silence, a powerful means of connecting physicians with their patients and advancing the healing process.
