The Cardiologist Walking Down the Hall
The hospital at night was a world of hums and beeps, fluorescent lights casting long shadows on sterile walls. Dr. Elena Cruz walked the halls, her white coat trailing behind her like a cape. She was a skilled cardiologist, known for her precision, her cool head, and her unshakable belief in science.
That night, she was on call. Her feet ached, her mind buzzed with a long list of patients, and she couldn't stop thinking about the man in Room 412.
His name was Walter. Sixty-two. Former teacher, poet, and chronic heart failure patient. He had been admitted two days ago with worsening symptoms, and despite their best efforts, his prognosis was bleak.
Elena wasn't sure what to make of him. He wasn't like most of her patients. He greeted every doctor with a smile, called the nurses by their names, and asked Elena the kind of questions no one ever asked.
"What made you decide to be a doctor?" he had asked her that morning.
"To save lives," she had replied without thinking.
Walter had nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "A noble answer," he said. "But maybe not the only one."
Now, as she stood outside his room, Elena felt an unusual hesitation. She checked her watch. It was almost midnight. She could have waited until morning, but something pressed on her—a restlessness, a sense of something left undone.
She knocked softly and stepped inside.
Walter was awake, propped up against his pillows, scribbling in a battered notebook. He looked up and smiled. "Dr. Cruz. Burning the midnight oil?"
"I wanted to check on you," she said, glancing at the monitors. His vitals were steady, but she knew they wouldn't hold forever.
Walter closed his notebook and set it on the bedside table. "Ah, the numbers. They tell you part of the story, don't they? But not all of it."
Elena hesitated. "How are you feeling?"
"Alive," he said, chuckling. "For now, that's enough."
She sat in the chair by his bed, something she rarely did. "What were you writing?" she asked, nodding toward the notebook.
Walter's eyes lit up. "A poem. Or the start of one. Would you like to hear it?"
Elena hesitated. She had never been one for poetry, but something in his gaze made her nod.
He opened the notebook, his voice soft but steady.
"The heart beats not for time,
but for the moments it dares to hold—
the first breath of dawn,
the sound of laughter through the rain,
the fleeting, the fragile,
the bold."
He closed the notebook and looked at her. "What do you think?"
Elena wasn't sure what to say. "It's... beautiful," she admitted.
Walter smiled. "You see, Doctor, a poem is a lot like life. If you wait for it to be perfect, you might never write it at all. Sometimes, you just have to put the words down, messy and raw, and trust that they mean something."
Elena felt a strange lump in her throat. "Is that why you write? To make sense of it all?"
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe it's just to remind myself I'm still here."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the monitors filled the silence.
Then, Elena did something she hadn't done in years. She pulled a pen from her pocket, tore a blank sheet from her notebook, and began to write. Not a report, not a chart—just a few scattered lines.
Walter watched her, his expression unreadable. "A doctor who writes poetry," he said. "Now that's something."
"It's not poetry," she said quickly, embarrassed.
"Not yet," he said. "But give it time."
When Elena left the room, the piece of paper was folded in her pocket. She couldn't explain why, but she felt lighter, as if Walter's words had unlocked something in her.
Over the next few days, as Walter's condition worsened, Elena found herself returning to his room, not just as a doctor, but as someone willing to listen. They talked about books, about the small miracles of everyday life, and about the courage it took to create something—anything—in the face of uncertainty.
When Walter passed, his notebook was left on the bedside table. Elena opened it, flipping through pages of unfinished poems, sketches, and thoughts. On the last page, in a shaky hand, he had written:
"For Dr. Cruz—
The poet with a stethoscope.
Write boldly. Live boldly.
The heart beats for no less."
She stood there for a long time, the notebook clutched to her chest, feeling the weight of his words. And that night, in the quiet of her apartment, Elena opened her notebook and began to write—not to make sense of it all, but simply to remind herself that she was still here.
(This story is donated to the public domain.)
"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
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