By Mark Quion ’26

An earnest smile broke across my patient’s wrinkle-creased face. After our prayer, she instinctively reached up to make the sign of the cross, but the attempt was cut short by excruciating pain. Though foreign to my own Adventist tradition, I reached over and gently finished the oft-repeated ritual for her.

“Thank you, dear,” she whispered.

She passed shortly after, surrounded by family and confident that she had finished her race well.

What does it mean to die with dignity?

As a medical student, there are few moments more satisfying than arriving at the correct diagnosis or answering a difficult bedside question. But sacred moments like these cannot be prepared for by the Socratic method alone. They require recognizing the person before you, not merely as a puzzle to be solved, but as a fellow soul nearing the finish of their race.

So here at the end of medical school, I offer a heartfelt thank-you. To the weeping mother deemed ineligible for transplant, to the graceful painter declining reperfusion, and to the cheerful veteran succumbing to systemic infection — thank you. You allowed us, naive medical students, to hold your hands and share in your prayers. We listened as you shared your regrets, triumphs, confusion, and at times even anger. Your stories challenged us to seek wisdom from our hospital chaplains, pastors, and spiritual leaders for questions too large to be approached alone. We will carry your memories with us always.

I drew this calligram at the end of my second-year palliative care elective. It is a rough transcription of the original Hebrew text describing the end of King Asa’s life: a story that begins with promise and success, yet ends in pain and skepticism. In concluding Asa’s story, the text states that “in his disease he did not seek the Lord, but sought help from physicians” (2 Chronicles 16:12).

I have often reflected on how easily this passage can be misunderstood. The tragedy was not that the king sought physicians, but that his illness became a place where faith and healing were no longer held together. Scripture offers alternatives worth pondering — most notably a criminal on a cross who received not miraculous healing, but assurance, presence, and comfort from the Great Physician. That same Great Physician, like many of our patients, had wrestled with the cup set before Him only hours earlier.

My prayer is that our practice, as graduates, would continue Christ’s healing ministry: to come alongside patients and families wherever they may be in their race. At times, we may help restore strength or witness healing for another leg ahead. At other times, we may simply steady weary souls nearing the finish line so they, too, can say, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (2 Timothy 4:7). But at all times, may our patients know they are never alone — especially as they cross life’s finish line.