My job was to make sure our patient’s pain was controlled while also avoiding the confusion[混亂狀態] that is a side effect[副作用] of narcotic[麻醉] medications. But miraculously[奇跡般地]， she didn’t need pain medications for hours and was fully aware of everything that was going on. Looking at the bride[新娘] and groom[新郎] from her hospital bed， she seemed more comfortable than I had ever seen her before. The whole day had an unreal feel to it； everything felt like it slowed down. The sun shone through the windows and glistened[閃耀] on the bags of fluid[液體]. For once in the hospital， there were tears but no pain. It felt as if， after all these years of chasing our patient down， even the cancer took a break.
The next morning， the family decided to move her to hospice. No intubation[插管]， no CPR—nothing that would prolong[延長] life. It was all about trying to make the patient comfortable. （And yet， four months later， she is still alive.）
In today’s efficiency[效率]-obsessed[著迷] medical world， it’s easy to forget that healing patients isn’t just about treating diseases and relieving[減輕] symptoms[症狀]. There are things doctors and nurses can do， meaningful interventions[幹涉]—like helping patients fulfill final goals or spend quality time注2 with their families—that cannot be documented[記錄] in a discharge summary[出院小結] or be converted[轉變] into a blip[評論] on a screen.
As a doctor， I never liked the word “miracle.”I preferred to think in terms of[以……措辭] “medical outliers[異常值].” And yet that day of the wedding did feel like a miracle. Doctors often share their patients’ sorrow[悲傷]， but rarely their joys. We had not discovered the cure to cancer， but we had achieved something powerful—freeing， if only temporarily[短暫地]， our patient from her disease.