It was a busy night at the hospital. Another night of relentless admissions each patient sicker than the last. The nursing staff were overwhelmed and my list of labs, x-rays and admit notes was piling up. When I answered my 42nd page of the night it was regarding my next admission. On the phone was the emergency room doctor reporting that my next patient was a 90 year old man being admitted for jaundice and mild abdominal pain; "oh, and don’t worry he’s stable," the doctor said as he hung up.

As I approached the room I remember running the differential in my head for jaundice and none of them were very promising at his age. At the same time I was praying he was in fact "stable" so that I could get in and get a history, do a quick physical, get him tucked safely, and then get out with enough time left over to catch the coffee cart before it closed for the night.

When I approached the patient's bed, I saw laying before me a skeleton of a man with each bone perfectly outlined under a thin layer of fragile skin. His face was well worn but attractive for his age. He had a belly that appeared as though he was 9 months pregnant and was the color of a carrot. I tried to hide my shock at his appearance by quickly launching into my preset routine. "Hello, my name is Doctor Wiefling, but you can call me Bridgette, I will be your physician through the night until your regular doctor sees you in the morning." He quickly interrupted, "but I have no regular doctor." "Oh," I said as I picked up my pen and began to scribble. "Well, don’t worry we will assign you a doc in the morning. For now I need to get your story and do a quick physical. Okay?" His eyes squinched in pain. Taking note, I asked about his pain level and he stoically responded, "it’s tolerable." I was amazed at his unbelievable tolerance and strength and wondered how he had survived so long with no care?

The interview continued. I asked a series of medical questions trying to get an idea of what was causing his liver failure. He was strikingly keen for his age, his memory unfailing, although there seemed to be something different about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. I finally reached the part of the interview that asks more personal questions about drinking, alcohol consumption, children, employment ect. When I asked about his marital status his eyes looked out the window with a pause. "I’m widowed," he replied. I felt badly as it was clear there was deep seated pain in his eyes and I thought to myself that the loss of his wife must have been recent judging by the intensity of his response. Quickly I responded, "I’m sorry, when did she pass?" With tears now welling in his eyes and more wincing from pain he responded "40 years ago." I was shocked and curious. Out of my mouth came a flurry of questions that were no longer part of my script. "Children?" "No, none." "You never remarried?" "No, why would I?" an awkward pause occurred as I sat down on his bed wanting to pursue this discussion. His eyes were begging me to continue and into my heart I felt a question arise, quite an unusual question, which began tugging at me and then out it poped ... "How did you meet her?" A sparkle arose and the pain seemed to fade away as he began telling their story. He was leaving for war, which war I didn’t ask, and they met on a double blind date. She was actually his buddy’s date. She loved his convertible and no one ever made him laugh so hard. The relationship grew quickly. They had barely any time together before he would have to go. She stuck by him through his tour and upon returning they were married. She was a great cook and always optimistic. They tried to have children but none ever seemed to come. Then the cancer and medicines and her decision to let go. "God I loved her, she was a great woman."

"Do you believe she’s in better place?" I asked. He responded with pride as he reached for my hand. "I know she is."

Then he said something that I would only come to fully understand later. "Doc my life was good, thanks for listening to our story."

My pager went off ... it had been over an hour, the coffee cart long closed. I didn’t care. In his hands I could feel the power of true love.

I stepped out to answer my page, by the time I returned just minutes later he was dead. His face was so peaceful ... I held his hand ... he told their story ... my tears fell ... he left the mark of their love on my soul.