Placing 4th in our writing competition, Dr Edoardo Cervoni writes about the case that taught him to never take hope away from his patients
Early in my career, fresh from the rigours of medical school, I encountered a patient who would shape my understanding of what it truly means to be a doctor. It was 30 years ago, and I was just beginning to find my feet in a profession that demanded more than I had imagined.
She came from Sicily, seeking treatment in Genoa, Liguria, accompanied by her husband. Her ailment was cancer of the tonsil, a diagnosis that, even then, carried with it a shadow of inevitability. She was one patient among many, but her impact on me was indelible.
From the moment they arrived, I could see the fear in their eyes — hers, of the unknown, and his, of losing her. The distance from home and family compounded their anxiety, leaving them feeling isolated in a foreign place. Though her husband was devoted, the weight of her illness bore heavily on them both. They were alone, except for me and the other medical staff who would become their closest companions in this final journey.
She had undergone surgery, and she could not speak much due to its effects. This was a time when patients remained in hospital until they were fit for discharge, so she spent her days in our care, communicating as best she could with gestures and the occasional whisper. Her husband was always at her side, his presence a quiet source of strength, yet his eyes betrayed the deep sorrow he tried to hide. In those silent exchanges, I learned that medicine is not just about treating a disease; it is about treating people. Every patient carries with them a life story, dreams, fears, and the silent plea for hope. My medical textbooks had not prepared me for this.
As her condition worsened, I was confronted with the stark reality of my limitations. There was no cure to offer, only palliative care to ease her pain. I found myself in a delicate dance — balancing honesty with compassion, transparency with the preservation of hope. It was not an easy balance to strike. There were times when I questioned my decisions, wondering if I had said too much or too little.
The hardest part came when I realised that no matter what I did, she was going to die. The sense of failure was overwhelming. But in those final days, as I sat by her bedside, holding her hand, with her husband holding the other, and listening to the few words she could still manage, I came to understand something profound. My role was not just to heal but to be present, to offer comfort, and to provide dignity in the face of death.
Her passing was a moment of quiet sorrow, but it was also a moment of clarity for me. I learned that being a doctor is about more than just medical expertise; it is about human connection. Bedside manner, empathy, and the ability to communicate honestly yet gently became as crucial to my practice as any medical procedure.
Most importantly, I learned never to take away a patient’s hope. Even in the darkest moments, hope is what sustains. It is what gives patients the strength to face another day and what drives us, as doctors, to be the best we can be.
In the years since, I have carried these lessons with me, striving never to settle for a suboptimal version of myself. I have made it a point to understand my limitations, to be transparent with my patients, and to never forget the power of a kind word, a gentle touch, or a moment of shared humanity.
That one patient from Sicily—and her devoted husband—taught me more than any textbook ever could. They reminded me that at the heart of medicine lies the simple truth that we are all human, and that sometimes, the greatest gift we can give is our presence, our compassion, and our unwavering commitment to doing the best we can, even when the outcome is beyond our control.
Dr Edoardo Cervoni is a GP locum in Merseyside
