I do not watch the news anymore. I do not listen to it on the radio. I do not even read about it online. But every once in a while, I will catch myself reading an article on Google News on my iPad. I, too, fall prey to clickbait on occasion. But, for the most part, I avoid the news: local, regional, state, national, and even international. It is too depressing. If it is not college football news, the upcoming World Cup, or the Olympics, I tune it out.

COVID ruined me. At first, we were hailed heroes, those of us who worked, caring for our friends and neighbors, when the world shut down. Then slowly, as the world reopened and those shuttered businesses slowly opened their doors, I sensed an anger, a vitriol. Soon after, I started to resent the term “health care heroes,” for we became targets, bullseyes, for the public sentiment and anger. While the rest of the world returned to normalcy, my friends and I struggled. We struggled to care for our dying COVID patients, whose families were not allowed to visit. We struggled to protect ourselves from the lack of PPE, despite the world reopening. We struggled to support each other’s wounded souls; the productivity metrics just would not allow it. We struggled to protect ourselves against threats from patients, from patients’ loved ones, and even from some of our own family members, friends, and neighbors, not long after COVID, Ivermectin, and the vaccine were politicized. And then, the straw that broke the camel’s back was when the son of a patient I lost to COVID threatened “to find me, my wife, and my children” if I documented COVID as a cause of death on his father’s death certificate. That is when I stopped watching, listening to, and even reading about the news.

Sadly, during the two years of the COVID pandemic, our country struggled not only with the most COVID deaths in the world (we are #1!) but with countrywide protests, a transformation in our nation’s administration, the January 6th riots, and political and civilian hatred and threats directed toward our public health leaders. I was heartbroken to witness so much hatred, anger, and animosity.

Over the ensuing years since COVID, I sense that the news and world affairs have fallen into further dissension. Innocent civilians in Israel and Palestine have been murdered. Russia invaded hapless Ukraine, seized much of their land, and callously murdered innocent residents as the world turned a blind eye. In March 2024, only weeks before the Orthodox Easter, the Russian Orthodox Church, under Patriarch Kirill’s leadership, sanctified the actions of Russia against Ukraine, declaring the Russian invasion a “holy war” against the “satanic” West, against Ukraine. Is it any wonder why the Orthodox Church of Ukraine split from its Russian Orthodox Church Patriarchate?

In our own country, we are witnessing innocent citizens, those who try to protect their neighbors, murdered at the mercy of ICE agents. As a son of immigrant parents, I cannot even begin to comprehend such actions. Meanwhile, we have threatened to take over Greenland, severed a long-lasting relationship with our friends to the North, and further damaged our symbiotic relationship with our neighbors south of the Rio Grande River. And the laundry list goes on.

Lessons from the bedside

World leaders should take lessons from us physicians, those of us who work at the bedside, not the C-suite. Over my 26-year career as an attending physician, I have worked side by side with many brilliant, compassionate physicians and human beings whose skin colors, religious beliefs, sexual orientations, traditions, holidays, and upbringings differ tremendously from my own.

Even in my neck of the woods, in small-town southern Ohio, at Ohio’s gateway to Appalachia, I have worked beside so many physicians from such diverse backgrounds, one would think we were worldly travelers in the international terminal at JFK Airport in New York City. Despite our differences, we all came together and found a common ground: our mutual patients and their welfare. Ironically, there was no discord, no anger, no vitriol, no contempt, but merely mutual respect, fondness, and appreciation for each other.

I have been fortunate to befriend Mike, a brilliant neurologist whom I have had the pleasure of learning from, caring mutually for our patients, and developing a friendship and brotherly bond over 26 years, especially during COVID when we were abandoned in the trenches. Although we are alike in many ways, our physical attributes differ immensely: His skin color the exact opposite of my pale white torso, his chiseled physique could teach today’s medical students the art of anatomy while my “rockin’ dad body” should never be seen at a public beach without a t-shirt, and his tall stature dwarfs my “worldly” presence. Yet his professional, compassionate, and endearing demeanor only fuels the magnetic attraction directed toward him. Most importantly, I trust Mike to care for my son.

It was Mike’s practice partner, Muhammad, a friend I trained alongside in residency, he in neurology and I in med/peds, who lifted my spirits and morale more than any other individual during the throes of the Delta variant of the COVID pandemic, when I cared for and witnessed countless deaths of my local brethren, many of whom I befriended from my private practice days in the early 2000s. That Christmas 2021, Muhammad wished me a very merry Christmas, a happy and safe New Year, and many blessings moving forward. He expressed the above sentiments; he a practicing Muslim from his native Pakistan. He said that. And he meant that. Not my Christian friends. Muhammad. Those sentiments, his brotherly compassion, his support carried me through the pandemic days and beyond, sentiments from a friend and colleague I will take with me to my grave.

Speaking of the COVID pandemic, Haval (from the northern outskirts of Kurdish Iraq) and Nick (American born with Persian and Scandinavian roots) were the two pulmonologists who morphed into my adoptive brothers as we mutually cared for our dying community, who cared for and supported each other and our wounded souls in the intensive care unit. Our mutual friend Wael (who originates from Lebanon by way of Canada and Michigan) was our infectious disease expert who collaborated with us, slugged through hell with us, and who suffered the same terror that Haval, Nick, and I experienced in the ICU those two years. Nowadays, when time permits, the four of us gather, meet for dinner at a restaurant, and celebrate us, our mutual differences, our mutual bonds, and our affection and appreciation for each other, our own mini-United Nations.

I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the great admiration and affinity I exude for Emily, a brilliant nephrologist whose roots stem from Nigeria, a sister from another mother, a beautiful friend and colleague who now cares for my wife. She, too, like Mike, Haval, Nick, and Wael, battled alongside me in the trenches of COVID hell. Together, we cared for our patients. We suffered and cried together. Most importantly, we befriended each other and comforted each other. To this day, she performs saintly work, akin to a modern-day Mother Teresa.

In my hospitalist world, I have worked with friends and colleagues from all parts of the world, all religions, all cultures, all beliefs, a potpourri of sexual orientations, skin colors, and traditions. My friends from Ghana, Kingsley and Reginald, possessed some of the greatest intellect and passion for patient care. They too were my comrades, except during the World Cup days when Ghana repeatedly beat my USA to advance in the tournament. Then there was Rajalakshmi, my dear friend and colleague who originates from India, who scolded me for prescribing alcohol to my alcoholic patients in order to prevent withdrawal (long before our hospital adopted a CIWA protocol), who taught me a thing or two about medicine, about humanity, and who grew on me like a sister. And it was my dear friend Dalia (who originates from Egypt, also a Muslim) who taught me the humanity of honoring a patient with a moment of silence when we could not successfully revive them. It was she who taught me that “we are ALL God’s children.”

In the world of death and dying, suffering, and moral destruction during COVID, it was none other than Elise Armelle (who hails from Cameroon) who comforted our patients, their families, our community, and, especially, us physicians as we too struggled with our own moral consciences, our souls, and our own “wellness.” In the eyes of my friends, colleagues, and I, she is on a fast track to sainthood.

Finally, it is Siyun from China, another neurology friend and colleague I befriended many years ago, who drove a car like mine (Suzuki SX4, his a sedan, mine a hatchback), who developed an affinity for fuel efficiency and affordability much like me, who helped me care for our mutual patients and community members; it was he who, despite his lingering Chinese accent, approached me and beautifully and poetically proclaimed in the most authentic Slavic tone, “dovidenje” (until we meet again) on my last day at my former hospital, as I was relieved of my duties after serving there for 23 1/2 years. With a tear in his eye, he did not reach out his hand to shake, but, rather, offered me a “big bro” hug only shared amongst blood-born relatives. I reciprocated, both in tears and a hug.

What I learned over my 23 1/2 years at my former hospital and now at my current hospital is that there are many physicians with diverse backgrounds, religious beliefs, skin colors, traditions, sexual orientation, and family values. Despite our mutual differences, we all gather, work collectively for the betterment of our patients, and, more often than not, develop a friendship, a brotherhood, a sisterhood, a bond which can never be severed. I am honored, grateful, and indebted to these physicians I consider my adoptive brothers and sisters. There is no war among us, no hatred, no disrespect, only love, compassion, and admiration.

Maybe the United Nations and the global leaders of the world should take lessons from us physicians.

Zoran Naumovski is a hospitalist.