Takeaway
As a new doctor, I cared for an unwaveringly optimistic patient with systemic sclerosis. She reminded me that holistic care requires deep listening—not just to medical histories, but to the hopes and dreams that carry patients forward, even when medicine can do no more.
Passion in the Medical Profession | July 10, 2025 | 2 min read
By Payal Dey, MBBS, Johns Hopkins Observership Program, with Sonal Gandhi, MBBS, Johns Hopkins Medicine
Before I met her, I was weighed down by the distance from home and the ache of trying to prove my worth. I wasn’t just exhausted—I was running low on belief.
Then I walked into her room.
She was propped up in bed, four liters of oxygen hissing gently at her nose. Her fingers, curled and thinned by years of systemic sclerosis, hovered awkwardly over a laptop. Her breath was labored, her voice a whisper. And yet—there it was—a smile that radiated warmth and strength. “Doctor,” she said, “just start my Mycophenolate again. I should be up and running. I’ll recover—I know I will. I’m resilient.”
She meant it.
This wasn’t false optimism or denial. It was a lived experience. She’d been diagnosed over two decades ago with diffuse systemic sclerosis. It started with Raynaud’s and fingertip discoloration, quickly followed by skin tightening, perioral fibrosis, and GI dysmotility. She developed interstitial lung disease and pulmonary hypertension soon after. Over the years, she’s faced digital ulcers, gangrene, and amputations. More recently, she endured recurrent myopericarditis—three hospitalizations in one year, each more taxing than the last. Her hands, once agile, are now stiff and disfigured. Her breath, once effortless, now comes in shallow bursts. And yet, her spirit remains untouched.
She spoke with clarity about her work—still ongoing despite the challenges—and her plans to travel home to Egypt. “There’s a portable oxygen concentrator I found,” she told me, eyes lighting up. “Lightweight, easy to carry. I think I can manage.”
That day she didn’t just reassure herself—she reassured me. Before meeting her, I’d been quietly drowning in my own doubts: trying to find my footing as an international medical graduate, living alone in a foreign land, unsure if all this effort would ever yield a place to belong. But here was a woman, lying in bed, breathless and broken in body, still planning, still dreaming, still showing up for life.
In the days that followed, she became a source of light. She gave strength to those around her, not with grand speeches, but with calm courage. She reminded me that resilience doesn’t have to be loud. It can simply be quiet persistence. It’s choosing life, again and again, even when everything hurts. She helped to rekindle my belief in myself and in the human spirit. And for that I will be forever grateful.
But than anything, caring for her changed the way I approached medicine. Her resilience challenged me to become more attentive—to listen deeply, to honor my patients’ hopes, and to meet their courage with my own compassion and commitment. She taught me to recognize that my role wasn’t only to treat disease, but to partner with someone in their journey, however difficult. In witnessing her unwavering spirit, I learned to find strength in vulnerability.
This piece expresses the views solely of the author. It does not necessarily represent the views of any organization, including Johns Hopkins Medicine.