Takeaway
Like surfers, we all need to get back on the board after falling. My patient with new significant physical limitations showed great courage in greeting each day with humor and gratitude.
Passion in the Medical Profession | August 20, 2025 | 2 min read
By Peng-Jhen Wu, MD, Johns Hopkins Observership Program, with Carolina Musri, MD, Johns Hopkins Medicine
The respiratory therapist showed me the speaking valve on the tracheostomy of the patient. His wife and mother stood smiling behind him.
“I’m doing well. I’m grateful now that I have this valve; nobody can stop me from speaking!” he joked. Mr. M appeared remarkably peaceful despite the diagnosis of multiple sclerosis a few months ago.
Before entering his room, I’d looked at the photos taped to his door; his fiancée had adorned it with pictures of the two of them. In one of the photos, Mr. M stood on the beach, surfboard in hand, beaming with a bright and open smile.
It reminded me of the time when I was a medical resident in Taiwan. As one of the newest doctors in the hospital, I struggled with the relentless pace of patient admissions, emergency conditions, a constant stream of orders, and endless self-doubts. I somehow managed to carve out time to surf on weekends. Out on the water, getting tossed and tumbled by waves, I paradoxically felt grounded. I spent far more time failing than successfully riding, and I often felt frustrated. It required practice, humility, and learning to read the waves. I coped with the scorching sun and many bruises. Sometimes I had to take a moment on the shore, watching the waves from a distance and reflecting on how to approach them differently. My most important lesson from this experience wasn’t to avoid falling, but to learn how to get back on the board and paddle out again. Which is hard.
I reflected on Mr. M, once a radiant beach guy chasing waves and now sitting in a wheelchair. His smiles and unyielding spirit made me ponder: So many others in the world, facing immense suffering, are not defeated. Instead, like surfers, they quietly wait, searching for the next good wave. What role can clinicians play in this process? Can we, through listening and learning, understand their struggles and help them catch that next wave?
That day Mr. M’s story brought me back to the world of waves and balance. He reminded me that life is a long run, encompassing both thick and thin. The lesson is to remain focused and present in each moment, keeping our minds steadfast whether the day brings sunshine or rain. Mr. M understood his new physical limits but continued to find and appreciate the beauty of the ocean waves.
This piece expresses the views solely of the author. It does not represent the views of any organization, including Johns Hopkins Medicine.