The following is a fictional story excerpted from Real Medicine, Unreal Stories, Volume 3.
***
Dr. Nina Wallace checked the chart one last time before entering Room 8. The nurse had warned her—again.
“Room 8’s all yours,” Sandra had said, with just a little too much sympathy. “Mr. Forsythe’s back. He told me you’re the ‘least terrible’ doc he’s seen here.”
“Oh, I’m honored,” Nina muttered, steeling herself.
She stepped inside to find Henry Forsythe already glaring at her from behind the newspaper he insisted on reading during every admission. Seventy-two, ex-smoker, diabetic, expletive artist, noncompliant to the point of sport.
“You again,” he barked. “Still teaching manners to the interns with your eyebrows?”
Nina ignored the bait. “Good morning, Mr. Forsythe. Looks like you were admitted again for worsening heart failure.”
“Oh, now you know why I’m here? Did you divine that from the stars, or did someone finally read my chart?”
She pressed her lips into a neutral smile. “Your weight’s up five pounds, and your BNP is in the thousands. Let’s review your meds.”
“Why? So you can give me another lecture on salt? I like potato chips, Doc. They make life worth living. You should try joy sometime.”
And just like that, Nina felt the familiar tug of exhaustion—not from the medicine, but from the man. This wasn’t her first encounter with Mr. Forsythe. He’d refused physical therapy, sneered at case managers, and once called a resident a “walking pathology lecture with no soul.”
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Still, she went through the motions. Because medicine wasn’t just diagnostics. It was discipline.
Later, in the break room, Nina vented to her colleague, Dr. Bao Minh, a thoughtful hospitalist who usually saw the best in people.
“He’s cruel for sport. And I keep thinking—what’s the point? He doesn’t want help. He wants control.”
Bao nodded slowly. “I’ve seen him. He doesn’t like me either. But sometimes, Nina, the point isn’t connection. It’s consistency. He doesn’t have to like you. You just have to show up.”
“Funny. He told me I’m cold and arrogant.”
“You can be,” Bao said with a grin. “But so what? I’ve got patients who think I’m too nice and others who think I’m a pushover. Look, there’s a limit. You don’t have to like him either.”
“I don’t,” Nina admitted. “And I feel awful saying that. Like I’m failing the Florence Nightingale oath or something.”
“Florence probably didn’t like cholera patients either,” Bao said. “But she treated them.”
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That evening, Nina returned to Room 8.
“I’m not your biggest fan, Mr. Forsythe,” she said, pulling up a chair.
He didn’t look up from his newspaper. “That makes two of us.”
“Right. So let’s stop pretending we’re auditioning for some Hallmark movie. I’ll treat you with respect. You don’t have to like me. But you do have to work with me if you want to stay out of the hospital.”
He lowered the paper. “You’re finally speaking my language.”
“Here’s the deal,” she continued. “We cut the salt. You walk a little each day. I’ll keep the lectures short. No more games.”
He looked her in the eye, and for the first time, didn’t sneer. “You’re all right, Wallace. Still don’t like you. But all right.”
The next morning, he ate the low-sodium oatmeal. Didn’t compliment it, but didn’t send it back either. When physical therapy showed up, he shuffled five steps without cursing. Progress.
Two days later, during discharge, he grunted a goodbye. Nina felt nothing resembling warmth—but something more honest. A detente.
As she updated the chart, a new intern poked her head in.
“I just got assigned to Mr. Forsythe. Any advice?”
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Nina smiled without irony. “Don’t try to win him over. Just do your job well.”
“Got it. So… he’s one of those patients?”
Nina leaned back. “We all have them. The patients who don’t like us. And the ones we don’t like either. Doesn’t mean we stop being doctors.”
The intern looked uncertain. “I guess I thought if I was kind enough, smart enough… people would appreciate it.”
“They will. Just… not all of them. And that’s okay.”
Nina turned back to her notes. The chart read discharged to home. But the real discharge was hers—a release from the weight of needing to be liked.
Author’s Note:
The doctor-patient relationship is sometimes less about mutual fondness and more about mutual responsibility. Patients come with histories and hurts we can’t always fix. Doctors come with limits and emotions we’re trained to suppress. But when both show up, truthfully and consistently, something close to healing can still happen. Even without liking each other.
