In her Field Notes essay “Hand Holding” (Fall 2019 Intima), Dr. Amanda Swain describes the experience of beginning her surgery rotation as a third year medical student. In the early days of the rotation, she feels an intense sense of being out of place within the “intricately choreographed dance” of the operating room. But when the next patient is wheeled in, Dr. Swain is reminded of how a nurse once took her hand before she underwent surgery, the touch conveying an unforgettable message of comfort during a time of deep vulnerability.

Dr. Swain’s instinct is to reach out to the patient to comfort him, but she senses these actions would be “unusual, perhaps seen as odd… [she] worried that the attending would see these moments as a distraction from the ‘real’ work of doctoring… The ‘real’ work of medicine was the curing of disease after all, not comforting patients.” But despite her hesitation, “unsure if [she] was breaking a rule of some kind,” she reaches out and takes his hand anyway. By doing so, she steps out of the stereotypically aloof role of a surgeon and into another in which she provides comfort with a simple touch, no matter how out of place it seems.

Roles need not be as disparate as we think. My piece “Zebras” (Spring 20201 Intima) takes place on a subway ride, flitting between observations of the people on the subway and memories from a recent patient encounter. At the end of the piece, I reflect on how the profession of medicine is one in which we will forever be striding between two worlds: that of “real life” and that of the hospital. Though these worlds are seemingly incongruent, the parallels drawn in the piece suggest hidden connections, a bridging of worlds.

I’ve always believed in the importance of the little things—tiny actions that aren’t documented or billed or quantifiable but harbor their own inherent meaning. Brief moments when we pause to comfort, console, celebrate, and to acknowledge patients as humans yearning for compassion. Oftentimes, these moments of human touch and connection are the ones I find most rewarding. Though “hand holding” may not cure a disease, we should never forget to pay heed to that tugging within us, when something beckons us to step forward and take a patient’s hand. These are moments of healing, and magic happens when we listen.

Wendy Tong is a third-year medical student at Columbia University Vagelos College of Physicians and Surgeons. She has always loved reading and writing, and now she is just beginning to set foot into the world of narrative medicine. Her Field Notes essay “Zebras” appears in the Spring 2021 Intima.