When I was studying the fourth year of Medicine —years 1973-74— I entered the Chair of Pediatrics at the Faculty of Medicine of Valencia as an internal student and I did not leave my post until I finished my degree, as I obtained a collaboration scholarship. The holder of the Chair was my beloved and admired Dr. Joaquín Colomer Sala, from whom I learned not only science and clinical practice, but also the need to provide that humanist touch that should always be present in medical practice. Three years later, after successfully completing my degree, I specialized in pediatrics.
During my training as a scholarship student, I went through the different departments of the then small Pediatric Service: neonates, infants… but where I spent the longest time was in “Second and Third Childhood” which at that time was directed by Dr. Emilio Borrajo Guadarrama, It was located on the second floor of the new area of the Hospital Clínico Universitario de Valencia, and it was a diverse department in which there was room for almost all childhood pathologies, including cancer.
I remember from that time, specifically during my last year of college, an eight or nine year old girl, an oncology patient who I became very fond of. Every morning, even when there was no need to consult, she would come into her room and play a joke on her or do some magic trick on her. Rosalía I was in the first bed on the left, the room had six beds facing each other, three facing three, and having visual access to the corridor, she would see me pass several times throughout the morning and we would wave to each other. Rosalía’s hospital admissions were frequent and prolonged, and although she tolerated them quite well, on some occasions she was angry, something that over time I came to understand as a protest for being locked in a hospital room and not at school with their classmates, or playing in the yard, or taking a walk with their parents on the way to the fair…
I try not to cry, an emotionality that in a way satisfies me by being able to verify how my sensitivity has not been lost over the years
During his last admission, one Monday morning when he arrived at the hospital, I went up to the room before going to the clinical session that we held every day before starting the day. I used to do it to check if any new patients had come in over the weekend. That day, while I peeked into all the rooms, I was surprised that Rosalía’s bed it was occupied by another girl. I imagined—although he puzzled me—that he had been discharged over the weekend. Shortly after, in the Clinic session, I learned that my dear little patient who I used to perform magic tricks on and who jokingly called me a rookie doctor when I administered her chemotherapy with a lumbar puncture, had died on Saturday night, and I was totally helpless. to hold back crying.
Even today, when writing this review, my adult eyes, already on their way to being old, make the threat of getting wet while I try to hold back tears, an emotion that in a way satisfies me by being able to see how my sensitivity was not lost over the years as I walked the long path of my professional career. I have felt the vain illusion, rather the desire that there is something more after life, because if that were the case, although I find it hard to believe in it, I am convinced that Rosalía would have become an angel who today would recognize me despite my gray hair and my wrinkles, and she would be glad to know that that novice doctor who made her so angry and laugh I still remember her.
I feel an immense love for all sick children and I have always nurtured the conviction that they are special beings who should never get sick. Perhaps this is the reason why I became a pediatrician and practiced the specialty for a long time until, without knowing how or why, my vocation as a doctor began to opt for the paths of mental health.
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