Greg's Journal: The Patient Who Quietly Changed Me

Greg's Journal | Entry No. 3

There are patients you remember because of how sick they were. There are others you remember because of the complexity of their care.

And then there are a few who stay with you for reasons that have nothing to do with medicine.

Mr. Mitchell was one of those people.

A Room at the End of the Hallway

I met him early in my nursing career. He was a quadriplegic. He couldn't move his arms. He couldn't move his legs. He had a tracheostomy, so he didn't speak very much. When he did, it was usually just a quiet "thank you."

His room was at the end of the hallway. A corner room, with enough space for the lift we used to move him safely from side to side. A small window sat in one corner, though the blinds were usually closed. The television was almost always off. A tray table sat beside his bed where I'd place his meals and the basin I'd use during his baths.

I spent a lot of time in that room. More than I realized at the time.

The Rhythm We Built

Because he couldn't feed himself, I stood beside his bed with a spoon in my hand. The bed had to stay elevated, so standing was the only way I could comfortably reach him.

I'd point to the next bite.

Mashed potatoes?

He'd nod.

Chocolate pudding?

Another nod.

He had a sweet tooth.

We developed a rhythm that didn't require many words. I'd tell him a little about my day. He'd listen. Sometimes he'd answer with a quiet smile. Sometimes just with his eyes.

Those Eyes

Those eyes were remarkable. Clear. Steady. Peaceful.

I've often thought about those eyes.

When I first met Mr. Mitchell, I expected to find someone discouraged by life. If I'm honest, I expected bitterness. I expected someone asking, "Why me?"

Instead, I met a man who had quietly accepted the hand life had dealt him. He didn't pretend his circumstances were easy. He simply refused to let them define who he was.

His children would come to visit. You could see how proud he was of them. He wanted to hear about their lives. Their work. Their families. Their accomplishments.

Even though he depended on other people for nearly everything, his attention was almost always focused on someone else.

I found that remarkable.

A Peace I've Rarely Experienced

One afternoon, as I stood feeding him another spoonful of pudding, I realized something. The room was completely quiet. The television wasn't on. Neither of us felt the need to fill the silence.

He'd glance at me. I'd point to the next bite. He'd nod. That was enough.

There was a peace in that room that I've rarely experienced anywhere else.

I don't think Mr. Mitchell ever intended to teach me anything. But he did. He taught me gratitude. Not by talking about it. By living it.

What Healthcare Really Teaches You

Healthcare gives you a front-row seat to human nature. You see people on the best days of their lives. You see people on the worst days.

You learn very quickly that circumstances don't always determine attitude. I've cared for patients with very little who radiated joy. I've cared for people who seemingly had everything and were deeply unhappy.

Mr. Mitchell showed me that peace comes from somewhere much deeper than circumstances. It comes from acceptance. It comes from gratitude. It comes from choosing to notice what remains instead of dwelling only on what has been lost.

The Lesson That Followed Me Home

That lesson followed me home. It changed how I looked at my own life.

When my children complain that something is hard, I don't try to minimize what they're feeling. But I do try to help them see what they still have.

Be thankful you can run. Be thankful you can see. Be thankful you can hug your brother. Be thankful you woke up this morning.

Gratitude doesn't erase difficulty. It changes the way we carry it.

A Quiet Strength

I've often wondered whether Mr. Mitchell knew the effect he had on people. My guess is he probably did.

Some people have a quiet strength that fills a room without ever demanding attention. He was one of those people.

Years have passed since I cared for him. I've taken care of thousands of patients since then. I've worked in trauma units, neuro ICUs, operating rooms, and recovery rooms. I've cared for people from every walk of life. Olympians. Physicians. Farmers. Teachers. Business owners. People with homes. People without them.

Every patient has taught me something.

But when I think about the person who changed me the most, my mind still returns to a quiet room with the television turned off. A tray table. A bowl of chocolate pudding. A man who smiled more than he complained.

Gratitude Is a Choice

People often ask me what healthcare has taught me. They're usually expecting an answer about medicine. The truth is, the greatest lessons had very little to do with medicine. They had everything to do with people.

Mr. Mitchell reminded me that dignity isn't measured by independence. Joy isn't measured by physical ability. And gratitude isn't reserved for people whose lives are easy.

It's a choice. One we get to make every day.

I hope I never forget that.

Because every time I start focusing on what's difficult in my own life, I find myself thinking about a quiet man with clear eyes and an easy smile who simply nodded toward the next spoonful.

He never gave me a lecture. He never tried to inspire me. He just lived with grace.

Sometimes that's the greatest lesson a person can leave behind.

For the Quiet Hours,
Greg Wiggins, CRNA
Co-Founder, Bloomfield Schoolhouse Lavender