Mr. Sampson, a 70-year-old man with a history of diabetes, was referred to us by his primary care physician for nerve conduction studies. He had been experiencing increasing numbness in his right hand for the past year and had recently started having trouble playing his beloved guitar. As a Vietnam War veteran, he had a fascinating story to tell.
As I approached him in the waiting room, he greeted me with a hint of playful sarcasm. “You’re going to hurt me, aren’t ya?” he said while grinning mischievously. I couldn’t help but smile back. “Only a little bit, sir,” I replied, trying to match his light-heartedness.
In the room, I began marking his hands to indicate where I would be delivering shocks to his median and ulnar nerves. As I worked, Mr. Sampson spoke animatedly about his experiences in Vietnam and his fondness for the Vietnamese people. He mentioned places in Vietnam that I had never heard of and made a valid point that I should be familiar with these significant places.
We soon veered onto the topic of his family. His eyes sparkled with pride as he spoke about his children and grandchildren. At that moment, I realized that beyond being a patient, Mr. Sampson was a person with a rich history and a deep love for those close to him.
As I prepared to administer the first shock, Mr. Sampson’s initial exclamation of pain caught me off guard. “You son of a biscuit!” he exclaimed, clutching his hand. I immediately apologized for the discomfort I had caused him, feeling a pang of guilt. But true to his nature, he reassured me with a smile, saying, “Don’t worry, I know you’re a nice guy. Let’s get this over with.”
Moving from the wrist to the elbow, the pain caused by the nerve shocks became more intense. I watched Mr. Sampson closely, noting the momentary grimaces that flickered across his face. However, he never lost his sense of humor. In moments of respite, he sarcastically quipped, “Hey Dr. La, do you have to be a sadist to do this?” I laughed and responded, “I think I’m a kind doctor, Mr. Sampson.”
The atmosphere in the room was lively despite the discomfort. Then Mr. Sampson said in a lower voice, “Hey there, what time do you get off from work? What set of doors do you leave through?” My co-resident quickly replied, “The set of doors you’re not leaving through.” Laughter erupted in the room, momentarily drowning out the nerve shocks.
Finally, the nerve conduction studies were complete. I thanked Mr. Sampson profusely for his patience. He simply shrugged and said, “No problem, Doc. I think I still like you.”
As we walked towards the exit, Mr. Sampson placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “You do good work, Doc. Now I know what’s going on.” I couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude to be of some help to him. Ever since medical school, caring for veterans brings me the greatest joy. There is something about caring for the veteran population that means a lot to me and so many others in the health care field. An often neglected population, and one that truly needs the best quality medical care possible.
In that brief encounter, Mr. Sampson taught me more than any textbook ever could. He showed me the importance of empathy, resilience, and the healing power of laughter.
Ton La, Jr. is a physician and can be reached on LinkedIn.
