The Family Connection

With each passing year in practice, time becomes more precious. So much to do, so little time. In the course of the busy day it is frustrating to receive a call from a concerned family member. The patient's explanation has not been adequate, and the loved one seeks further clarification, or reassurance. But the request to review the situation again (usually with a different family member from one already designated as “spokesman”) never comes at a convenient time. You'd like to oblige—and do—but, oh, couldn't this time be better spent with the patient?

Whenever such frustration surfaces I think back to a simpler time, when no family members asked questions. It was August of 1970, and I was travelling to Vietnam. I had finished my year of Chief Residency in July, and had just completed a five-week course in sweltering San Antonio, preparing for a year of practicing “tropical medicine” for the U.S. Army. We were to arrive in Saigon after 24 hours of flight time, tired and anxious, still not really believing that we were about to land in the middle of an unpopular and dangerous war. As our airplane dipped down over the cloud-covered mountains and the lush tropical vegetation of South Vietnam, someone muttered: “Three hundred …