By Ja Tsun ’26

D

uring my internal medicine rotation, I cared for a young man with acquired immunodeficiency syndrome complicated by multiorgan failure. His heart and kidney function continued to worsen, and our team recommended dialysis. However, he refused nearly everything — blood draws, medications, and even the procedure to place a dialysis catheter. His mother sat at his bedside, visibly anxious and heartbroken, pleading with him to accept treatment. Despite multiple conversations with the medical team, nothing seemed to change. I asked my resident whether I could speak with him. Before entering the room, I whispered a prayer, asking God for guidance and the right words to say.

I squatted beside his bed and gently asked why he did not want the procedure. After some conversation, he stated that what frustrated him most was being NPO (Latin for nothing by mouth) before procedures. He told me he simply wanted to go home, eat chips, and watch a movie. I explained that the procedure would be brief and that afterward he would be able to eat and drink. I told him that the team genuinely wanted to help, but we could only do so if he allowed us to move forward with the plan. After our conversations, he finally reluctantly agreed.

Later that afternoon, we brought him to the interventional radiology suite for catheter placement. His mother waited anxiously outside the procedure room. I decided to stay with her while we waited.

She spoke limited English, and I understood only a few Spanish words, yet somehow we still communicated. She told me stories about their journey to the U.S. and her faith in God. At the end of her story, I asked her whether it would be helpful if I prayed with her. She said yes. When the prayer ended, her eyes were filled with tears. She hugged me tightly, kissed my cheek, and thanked me for staying with her.

That evening, I returned to say goodbye and let them know it was my final day on the rotation. The mother looked saddened and told me that I was going to be a good doctor and that she hoped we would meet again someday.

As I walked back to my car, I reflected on her words. Medical school had often felt overwhelming. Exam after exam and constant pressure sometimes made me question whether I was truly becoming the kind of physician I hoped to be. Yet hearing a patient’s family tell me that I would be a good doctor meant more to me than any grade or score ever could.

This experience reminded me that medicine is not only about knowledge or academic performance. Sometimes, the most important thing we can offer patients and families is simply our presence. It also taught me that a deep human connection can exist even without a shared language. Despite cultural and linguistic barriers, spirituality became common ground between us. In that shared moment of presence, I witnessed how compassion and spirituality can connect people beyond language, culture, and circumstance.  ν