A few hours into a busy morning – the kind that always develops when, building on a string of slow days, I have a stack of journal articles to read and paperwork to do – I got a nonsense consult. Nonsense as in, all the surgery attendings in the hospital already knew about the patient, and had discussed her condition at length and leisurely among themselves. As a result of this consultation, spread over three days, they had decided that the one attending should officially consult the other attending. Which means his resident, that is, me, needed to go put an official note in the chart to let the poor medicine team which was babysitting this patient know that the surgical attendings have changed.

So my seeing the patient and writing a formal consult was going to contribute absolutely nothing to the patient’s care or to my team’s knowledge of her; but it had to be written.

It didn’t make me any more enthusiastic that the picture I got from the chart before going into the room was of a patient seeking pain medication. Sure, she had a couple genuine chronic conditions with biopsy documentation of their existence; but she was on a lot of narcotics, plus some valium thrown in. She had been on disability for years, even before this most recent, serious problem cropped up.

I was in for a surprise.

She was polite, pleasant, and a very coherent historian (first clue; real seekers try to muddy the waters). She was able to tell me all the studies that had been done, and gave me a timeline of her symptoms and the path to the final diagnosis.

I asked how long she’d been on disability, and all of a sudden she started talking. She’d been injured a few years before, but had kept busy up till last month taking care of her father, whose health had declined precipitously. Last month he died at home.

I didn’t have to say anything at all; she just wanted someone to listen. She told me about her mother’s poor health and inability to care for her husband, about how painful it was to watch her father getting continually worse. She told me about how he joined the army right after Pearl Harbor, flew several bombing missions, and was eventually interned in Switzerland, then came back to get married and start a family.

There was a lot more – his death had hit the family hard, and it sounded like the siblings weren’t relating to each other well now – but I wasn’t looking for holes in the story any more. No slacker takes disability, then works 24/7 caring for a dying parent. Most healthy people don’t do that much.

At the end of that talk, I understand why psychiatrists don’t believe in physical exam. After that much sharing, it’s rather anticlimactic to ask if you can listen to the patient’s lungs.