Lehigh County Health & Medicine Fall 2021 - 21

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But after about a year, Leon complained
of increasing fatigue and malaise. We were
able to get a biopsy of a cervical lymph node
which, as I expected, confirmed the diagnosis
of lymphoma. We talked about the options.
At first, he was very despondent and wanted
nothing done. But after consultation with
the oncologist and his family, he agreed to
try chemotherapy.
The treatments were rough. He got weaker.
Was it the lymphoma, I thought, or was it
depression? Soon enough, I got my answer.
Leon developed a sudden, raging fever and was
admitted to the hospital for suspected sepsis.
To my dismay, my primary hospital
had no available beds, an all too frequent
occurrence, so Leon was transported across
town to another facility. I knew he would
receive excellent care; I knew the hospital
and I knew the other physicians on his case.
But I was still out of the treatment loop.
Then, I received a distressing call from
Leon's son, who was planning to come
in from Chicago. He seemed to be angry
with me for not assuring the continuity
of care.
I tried to explain that I was not a
member of the other hospital's staff, that I
had received some reports, but that I could
not be involved in the day to day care of his
father. Furthermore, I explained to him, I
felt confident in his doctors and that they
could call me at anytime.
He really did not seem satisfied. Then
he said, " at least you could have called. "
My mind was numb. I can't visit every sick
patient who ends up in another hospital.
What was he saying? I should call all of my
patients in the hospital? Leon was a loyal
patient, a nice man, but he wasn't my good
friend. He wasn't a relative.
I was torn, upset, but I held my tongue.
I thought to myself that the son was just
emotionally distraught because his father
was so ill, and probably dying. I had an
unsettled feeling. The experience continued
to nag the inner recesses of my mind. I
had conflicting emotions: anger, anxiety
and even guilt.
Finally, that night I decided to call the
oncologist. I learned that he was unable to
pinpoint the source of infection. His blood
counts were low. He was deteriorating and
hope was fading. I called Leon's wife and
went over the whole situation with her on
the phone. She seemed satisfied with my
explanations. She thanked me for the call.
Next week was a hectic one, busy with
office and nursing home patients, hospital
emergencies and the usual annoyances that
physicians face every day, such as paperwork,
irritating calls from insurance companies
and the like. Somehow, I found the time
to dash across town, fielding several phone
calls in the process, and was still able to
visit Leon in his room. The visit was brief,
but he seemed very pleased. I left feeling
comfortable that I had helped to lift his
sagging spirits.
Then a few days later, the oncologist called
to tell me that a bone marrow biopsy showed
that the chemotherapy failed miserably. His
marrow was filled with lymphoma. The fever
was caused by the malignancy. I called his
wife again, but reached one his daughters.
I answered questions truthfully and clearly.
We talked about possible Hospice care. I
felt that I was involved in Leon's care at this
time to the best of my ability, even though
I was relegated to the sidelines by his being
in another hospital.
That night, on the Jewish Sabbath,
Leon died.
I went to the funeral.
It was a frigid
wintry day, snowing, and the attendance
was small. After all, other than the children
and grandchildren, there were no other
living relatives. Most of the friends were
members of the Orthodox temple. I listened
to Leon's son deliver a stirring eulogy, and I
learned more anecdotes about his life. Then
the Rabbi spoke. He compared Leon to the
burning bush in Exodus, the bush that was
consumed, yet would not die. He spoke
about the bush not being just a sign of God,
a revelation for Moses, but he also spoke
about the bush as a symbol of the durability
and strength of the Jewish people. And Leon
was the perfect example of a man who was
wrought with adversities, but somehow was
able to survive, and go on and establish a
new and fruitful life.
Then the Rabbi said something that hit
me like a dart. He said that Leon had the
uncanny and admirable ability to see the
good in others. That comment stayed with
me: the ability to see the good in others.
I wrestled with the Rabbi's observation. For
weeks this thought and the telephone experience
with Leon's son gnawed my consciousness.
Gradually, my thoughts became more
lucid. I began to understand that maybe
Leon's son knew that his father had great
respect for me and that he depended on me,
and yes, may have even REVERED me as
his physician. To Leon, I was not just his
physician in the sense of a person he went
to see when he didn't feel well. I was his
friend, advisor, confidante. I was a " healer, " a
" rofeh. " This man, who was so good at seeing
the goodness in others, felt so comforted by
my interventions and by my very presence.
How ironic that he saw the goodness in me
that I was unable to see in myself.
Physicians get so " caught up " in the trivialities
of medical practice, worry incessantly
about lawsuits, fret about antagonistic
patients and families. We forget so often
that our patients respect us, hang on to every
word we say, and depend on our advice and
expertise. And many patients even revere us.
I am now determined to approach each
patient in a different way. Since my patients
look to me as one who heals, teaches, advises
and gives comfort, I owe it to my patients
to respond to them as one who appreciates
the goodness that they see in me.
Thank you, Leon, for teaching me this
lesson. Your Rofeh wishes you everlasting
peace.
FALL 2021 | Lehigh County Health & Medicine 21
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Lehigh County Health & Medicine Fall 2021

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