Around his room, scattered paintings and photos were tacked to the wall, telling a piecemeal story of the strong man he once was and who I hoped to discover still existed. His half-eaten lunch rested on the bedside table near him. His aerated bed was silent for the moment.
It was day 273-some of his hospitalization, and it didn't look like he was heading home --- or anywhere for that matter --- any time soon.
I walked up and lightly touched him on his shoulder. "Good afternoon," I said tentatively, not wanting to jolt him. "I'm Dr. Hughes, the new intern on the team taking care of you. It's nice to meet you."
He rolled his head toward me and nodded slightly.
No words.
I kept it brief that day asking if he had chest pain, was worried about his tracheotomy, whether the pain regimen was adequate. Quite frankly, I didn't know what to say and couldn't wait to exit. I had heard from the previous intern that his care and situation was challenging, at best. His wife, rarely seen and who only conversed with attending physicians and not house staff like me, dictated his health care decisions, even though psychiatry confirmed he had full capacity to make decisions on his own. The wife particularly blew up early in the summer when she learned of his plans to remove himself from the ventilator. He had told his eldest son of his plans, who subsequently told his mother, and all holy hell broke loose afterward.
He had told many nurses he wanted to die ... and so I walk in to meet him for the first time knowing all of this.
