From the Soul on Call series
Note: These reflections are fictional and intended for educational and reflective purposes only. They are not medical advice and do not represent the views of any employer or institution.
It was a discharge note he could’ve written in his sleep.
Ninety-year-old woman. Delirium improved. Fluids tolerated. Home with supports.
Mild expressive aphasia. No follow-up required.
Dr. Solan Call signed it, checked the boxes, and closed the chart.
Then paused.
A nurse had told him the patient cried every morning. Said the word “daughter” like it broke something open.
No one knew if there was a daughter.
She never mentioned one when he asked.
He remembered the way her mouth shaped the word, lips trembling on the first syllable, then softening, almost apologetic, as if she had said too much. The kind of sound you hear once and then keep hearing in the back of your mind.
He hadn’t charted that.
Didn’t seem relevant.
Didn’t change the plan.
Still, it stayed with him.
That afternoon, during a slow stretch, Solan found himself by the window at the end of the ward.
Not scrolling. Not writing. Just… stalling.
Lisa Kind, called in for the most complex family meetings and the rare social worker everyone trusted, walked past, holding a chart.
She paused, then leaned on the window ledge beside him.
Neither of them said anything for a while.
Then Lisa spoke, a small smile at the edge of her voice.
“That’s the same stare I get after three back-to-back family meetings.”
He looked over. She wasn’t looking at him, just at the traffic below.
He nodded. Not to agree. Just to let the sentence land.
Later, on his walk to the parking lot, Solan thought about all the things he hadn’t charted lately.
The man who held his hand a few seconds too long before intubation.
The patient who whispered “please don’t leave” when he stood up to go.
The daughter who asked, not accusingly but honestly,
“Do you think she knew I was here?”
None of it billable.
None of it reviewed.
None of it remembered, except by him.
He passed the ambulance bay, where a paramedic leaned against the wall, sipping coffee from a paper cup. The man stared at nothing in particular, jaw tight, still in his gloves. A folded transfer sheet stuck out of his pocket. Solan wondered what was on it, and what wasn’t.
That night, he opened his personal notebook.
The one with the coffee stain on the corner and no official purpose.
He wrote:
“She looked afraid of silence.” — because in that pause, she seemed to realize no one was coming.
“He said it didn’t hurt, but he winced every time I touched his shoulder.” — and Solan pretended not to notice.
“I didn’t interrupt.” — even when the silence got heavy.
“I didn’t fix it.” — though every instinct told him to.
“I stayed.” — because sometimes that is all you can do.
The next day, Lisa passed him outside the family meeting room.
She was calm, but her eyes looked tired.
He offered to walk with her back to her office. She nodded.
As they walked, she said,
“You ever feel like the hardest things aren’t what we do, but what we carry?”
Solan answered without thinking.
“Especially the things we’re not allowed to call heavy.”
Lisa smiled. Just a little.
“We can still name them. Doesn’t make us less professional.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
He didn’t write any of it down.
But he didn’t forget.
🌱 Still carrying what never made the chart?
This week’s Soul Kit might help.
The Weightless Chart
Just one soft place to lay down what no one saw—but you still remember.
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