I cannot save your life, my patient.

I may remove your polyp,

So that adenoma does not become carcinoma,

And you do not live with a stoma,

Or die from colon cancer.


But I cannot save your life.

I may prescribe you guideline-directed medical therapy,

So that your blood pressure might lower,

And your heart may beat less forcefully,

And you may be relieved from the breathlessness of heart failure.


But I cannot save your life.

I may vaccinate you against a viral illness,

So that you do not wind up on a ventilator,

And become a victim of our political polarization,

Or a sad statistic.


But I cannot save your life.

I may treat you with an SSRI or an anti-psychotic,

So that you may find some safety from yourself,

And achieve some happiness,

At least for a while.


But I cannot save your life.

For one day,

After I’ve done all that I can do,

Your body will grow old,

And frail,


And weak.

And your soul, if souls do exist,

Will realize it is time,


And will submit to nature’s course.

And my only hope, my patient,

Is that when that time does come,

You might not be in pain or despair,

And that you might look back, and smile, and remember,

Reading your favorite book,

Or working on your car,

Or watching your daughter walk down the aisle,


Or taking your grandchildren to school.

I will always do what I can,

To heal your body,


So that your spirit might flourish.

But at the end of it all,

My patient,

I cannot save your life.