I had a patient in 1998 who was admitted to my service overnight for left upper quadrant pain. CT scan showed a lesion in the spleen, possibly embolic.
At that stage of my life, I had an entourage of 8-12 interns, residents, fellows and nurses who followed me around.
I went in the room. An old man, hair cut high and tight, looked fit enough to put on the uniform he hung up in 1945. The nurses report was “no pain”, because a) he hadn’t rung for the nurse; and b) he hadn’t asked for pain medicine.
The first thing I noticed was he was bolt upright, sweating bullets, and obviously in pain.
My entourage was mystified. I had seen this before.
“Tell my colleagues here why you didn’t call the nurse or the resident for pain medicine”, I said.
The inevitable answer: “Infantrymen only talk to infantrymen”.
Here’s this man, had a whole life after he came back from Europe, got married, had kids, sold insurance, raised a family - but in a way, the life of the man who went to Europe ended on a freezeing cold patrol (”so cold the snow squeaked”) who shot dead a 13 year old who popped up out of a ditch, pointed a rifle at him, then threw the rifle down and put up his hands, and a new life began right then and there.
When I was a medical student, there was a VA hospital (in Massachusetts, if I remember right) with 3000 beds devoted to psychiatric casualties from Europe and the Pacific, men who never really got to come home.
It is, as you say, horrific.
Great story, Jim. Thanks for telling us that. Your close about the VA hospital and the many men who never really got to come home is very telling.
I started re-watching “The Best Years of Our Lives” last night and got through the scene of Homer’s arriving at home with his mom, dad, sister and next-door girlfriend to greet him. It is absolutely heartbreaking to watch.
I hope you were able to help him.