Read This I Believe: Life Lessons for Free Online Page B

could help put on her socks. Instead, I launched into a monologue that went something like this: “How are you feeling? Your sugars and blood pressure were high but they’re better today. The nurse mentioned you’re anxious to see your son who’s visiting you today. It’s nice to have family visit from far away. I bet you really look forward to seeing him.”
    She stopped me with a stern, authoritative voice. “Sit down, doctor. This is my story, not your story.”
    I was surprised and embarrassed. I sat down. I helped her with the socks. She began to tell me that her only son lived around the corner from her, but she had not seen him in five years. She believed that the stress of this contributed greatly to her health problems. After hearing her story and putting on her socks, I asked if there was anything else I could do for her. She shook her head no and smiled. All she wanted me to do was to listen.
    Each story is different. Some are detailed; others are vague. Some have a beginning, middle, and end. Others wander without a clear conclusion. Some are true, others not. Yet all of those things do not really matter. What matters to the storyteller is that the story is heard—without interruption, assumption, or judgment.
    Listening to someone’s story costs less than expensive diagnostic testing but is key to healing and diagnosis.
    I have often thought of what that woman taught me and reminded myself of the importance of stopping, sitting down, and truly listening. And, not long after, in an unexpected twist, I became the patient, with a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis at age thirty-one. Now, twenty years later, I sit all the time—in a wheelchair.
    For as long as I could, I continued to see patients from my chair but had to resign when my hands were affected. I still teach medical students and other health care professionals, but now from the perspective of both physician and patient.
    I tell them I believe in the power of listening. I tell them I know firsthand that immeasurable healing takes place within me when someone stops, sits down, and listens to my story.
    Alicia Conill, M.D., is a clinical associate professor at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine. A native of Cuba, Dr. Conill also directs the nonprofit Conill Institute, which provides education to increase empathy, knowledge, and awareness about people living with chronic illness and physical disability.

Semper Fidelis

    Andrew Paradis
    My foundational belief, the one thing I find that I can count on in myself, and that I cling to in times of crisis, was formed during my service in the U.S. Marines. Their motto is “Semper Fidelis,” which means “always faithful.”
    In the Corps, that motto translated to the idea that you never leave your partner, especially in times of great need. You are there not to save or protect yourself, but to make sure your buddies are safe and protected; simply put, the mission and your comrades are more important than you are, and you realize quickly that you are engaged in events far larger than yourself.
    Since serving in the Corps, I have been challenged to remain always faithful. Several years ago, my wife, who has a physical disability (Ehlers-Danlos syndrome), began suffering from an undiagnosed mental illness, bipolar disorder. In the months leading up to her eventual diagnosis and treatment, she attempted suicide three times. I did all I could to keep up as much of a normal life as possible, especially for our young daughter, who also has Ehlers-Danlos. I didn’t want her to think of her mom as crazy, as a person who couldn’t be her mom anymore.
    Over the winter my endurance began to wear thin; I felt alone in an emotional storm, all guidance systems offline. There were times of deep weakness in which I almost gave in to my wife’s late-night whispered pleadings to help her kill herself: “Just turn the other way,” “Just take