A way unusual for me

I have a secret crush on one of my patients, an 85-year old man who's recovering from a bad pneumonia. After a weeklong stay in the intensive care unit, he has recovered at a remarkable pace: the day after he was extubated, he was out of bed with a physical therapist, making his way slowly around the ward with a walker and a big smile.

What motivates him to work so hard at recovery, the nurses say, is his love for his wife. They have been married 60 years. She comes in to see him every day, wheeled around by their daughter. The whole time she is there, they say, he holds her hand as if it is the last time he will see her.

When I come to see him, he is invariably adorable. He asks some questions about his treatment, which consists mostly of diuresis and antibiotic therapy. He tells me he can't wait to go home. And then, he engages me in chat. We talk about his family, he tells me a joke, he remembers the city as it used to be. He is extremely polite, and so grateful it makes me uncomfortable. Every time I leave his room, I am smitten anew.

Yesterday, I asked him to tell me about his wife.

"She's like you," he said.

I demurred. What did he mean? That his wife was very tired, or badly in need of a haircut? Or was he reassurring me that when I'm in my eighties, my hand, too, will be held tightly by a nice man? My heart beat faster.

"Yes, she's like you. She wants me to go home."

Because I am so anxious for him to be back at home with his wife, I double-check his medications every morning, and I fret in a way unusual for me over the pace of his diuresis. It's not that I ignore my other patients, or that I offer him better or different therapies because I like him--but I do like him, and for that reason, I am especially afraid of what the hospital might do to him. The potential for mistakes, or just bad luck, seems more immediate and real than ever. Last night, I stared at the ceiling for half an hour before falling asleep, thinking about what could go wrong.

Does he get better care than my other patients? Probably not. Twenty-four hours a day, every day, the nurses on his unit do the kind of compulsive checking that I'm doing just today. I doubt I am changing his outcomes in any way.

It will be better when he leaves the hospital. Then, I can get back to caring for people at my baseline level of personal investment--with enough compassion to stay awake all night in the hospital doing what's right for them, but not so much that I can't sleep once I get home.