Bedside Manner Quotes

You need a good bedside manner with doctors or you will get nowhere.

Is it going to hurt?" "You bet." Sergeant Major had a lousy bedside manner.

In a dying civilization, political prestige is the reward not of the shrewdest diagnostician, but of the man with the best bedside manner.

Hardy Cates," I said, coming into the room, "you behave, or I'll step on your tube." The nurse seemed taken aback by my unsympathetic bedside manner. But Hardy's gaze met mine in a moment of bright, hot voltage, and he relaxed, reassured in a way that cooing sympathy could never have done. "That only works if it's a breathing tube," he told me.

No," I replied testily. "I'm pretty sure 'digital' is Latin for 'fingeral,' so finger cancer equals digital cancer. This is all basic anatomy, Dr. Roland." The Dr. Roland told me that he thought I was overreacting, and the "fingeral" wasn't even a real word. Then I told him that I though he was underreacting, probably because he's embarrassed that he doesn't know how Latin works. Then he claimed that "underrecating" isn't a word either. The man has a terrible bedside manner.

In a dying civilization, political prestige is the reward not of the shrewdest politician, but of the man with the best bedside manner. It is the decoration conferred on mediocrity by ignorance.

Drink this," she told her friend. Jess moaned. "Do it," Kestrel said, "or you'll be sorry." "What a lovely bedside manner you have," Sarsine said.

Your head is incredibly hard…you’ll be fine.” “So much for bedside manner. You didn’t think about cushioning my fall before I hit the ground?” “Please, would you jump in front of an oak tree to stop it falling?” “You’re comparing me to a falling tree?

With four-to-one odds against us, our ability to leave the encounter without serious damage becomes seriously impaired." "Spock," McCoy said gently, "your bedside manner is flawless. You mean, we're all going to be blown to hell." Spock hesitated, then nodded.

Her healing mechanism’s stopped. The body doesn’t have enough of anything to keep going. Her brain’s seizing. A couple organs have collapsed. Massive trauma. Interesting.” “Paul,” said Pyrrha, “your bedside manner is bullshit.” “It’s interesting. It’s not great.

Next day, after lunch, I went to see "our" doctor, a friendly fellow whose perfect bedside manner and complete reliance on a few patented drugs adequately masked his ignorance of, and indifference to, medical science.

Morbid anatomy is essential to training and research, but leads many doctors into thinking that life is an agitation in something essentially dead. They treat patients' bodies as if the minds, the lives, were of no account. The smooth bedside manner we cultivate is seldom more than a cheap anaesthetic to make our patients as passive as the corpses we train upon. But a portrait painter does not learn his art by scraping layers of varnish from a Rembrandt, then slicing off the impasto, dissolving the ground and finally separating the fibres of the canvas.

Gabe, you’re sick, and much as you’re a shithead sometimes, I’ve trained you to be a fairly acceptable shithead to me. If you died I’d have to go to all the effort of training someone else.” “If I died maybe you should consider a change of career into the nursing profession. With your lovely bedside manner you’d be a shoo-in.

a psychiatrist without compassion is a terrifying thing indeed

his bedside manner was unhurried and he always treated me with dignity, careful to make me feel like a person first and a patient second.

Which meant she might as well return to a topic no man would ever bore of.Sex. "That concludes my overall dissertation on bedside manners before and after an encounter. Moving on to the last topic evolving around the setting of the bedroom. Would ine of yoy please define the purpose of a dildo and why a man should consider keeping one at his bedside at all times?

The midpoint in medicine between excessive emotional involvement with patients and a complete lack of empathy is not a simple one to locate.

Have we arrived?” “Just.” “Verdict?” “My goodman, do I look like your valet?” “No. She was much fairer. With better bedside manner.” “Adorable, pretending you just had one.” I raise an eyebrow. “You should talk, prince of Mars.” Cassius au Bellona grunts.

Dr. Bone Specialist came in, made me stand up and hobble across the room, checked my reflexes, and then made me lie down on the table. He bent my right knee this way and that, up and down, all the way out to the side and in. Then he did the same with my left leg. He ordered X rays then started to leave the room. I panicked. I MUST GET DRUGS. "What can I take for the pain?" I asked him before he got out the door. "You can take some over the counter ibuprofen," he suggested. "But I wouldn't take more than nine a day." I choked. Nine a day? I'd been popping forty. Nine a day? Like hell. I couldn't even go to the bathroom on my own, I hadn't slept in three weeks, and my normally sunny cheery disposition had turned into that of a very rabid dog. If I didn't get good drugs and get them now, it was straight to Shooter's World and then Walgreens pharmacy for me. "I don't think you understand," I explained. "I can't go to work. I have spent the last four days with my mother who is addicted to QVC, watching jewelry shows, doll shows and make-up shows. I almost ordered a beef-jerky maker! Give me something, or I'm going to use your calf muscles to make the first batch!" Without further ado, he hastily scribbled out a prescription for some codeine and was gone. I was happy. My mother, however, had lost the ability to speak.

Along with racism and sexism, our society has a form of caste system based on what you do for money. We call that jobism, and it pervades our interactions with one another on the job, in social settings and even at home. Why else would we consider housewives second-class citizens? Or teachers lower status than doctors even though their desk-side manner with struggling students is far better than many doctors’ bedside manner with the ill and dying?

Not a chance,’ said the doctor. If he had a bedside manner he evidently saved it for actual bedsides.

I guess he sees the mortified look on my face-Can I get a little bedside manner here?-because he awkwardly pats the sides of my arms and tried to smile.

He smiled, and it was like a bloodless cut. 'No,' he replied, amused by something. 'No, not a doctor. I haven't the bedside manner for it.

Jillian’s mouth pulled back at the corners. “Ivy comes highly recommended, is even more qualified, but her bedside manner is appropriate for working with dead people.

A rush of sensation pulsed through her, lingering long after his touch. The towel quickly fell free. He caught it before it slipped to the ground and slung it over his shoulder. “Consider this your first time,” he said, his tone low and sultry. Good Lord... Paige could hardly blink. If this was any indication of the doc’s bedside manner, she could only hope for long-term, intensive treatment.

But one night near the end, as I was sitting at his bedside trying to entertain him with an anecdote about some nincompoop with whom I worked, out of the blue he shared a reflection which seemed such a non sequitur that I attributed it to delirium. Whatever setbacks he had faced in his life, he said, however daunting or dispiriting the unfolding of events, he always knew that he would make it through, as long as when he woke in the morning he was looking forward to his first cup of coffee. Only decades later would I realize that he had been giving me a piece of advice. Uncompromising purpose and the search for eternal truth have an unquestionable sex appeal for the young and high-minded; but when a person loses the ability to take pleasure in the mundane—in the cigarette on the stoop or the gingersnap in the bath—she has probably put herself in unnecessary danger. What my father was trying to tell me, as he neared the conclusion of his own course, was that this risk should not be treated lightly: One must be prepared to fight for one’s simple pleasures and to defend them against elegance and erudition and all manner of glamorous enticements.

You have a fight ahead of you, one that goes far beyond what you’ve seen in your dreams.” Well fucking hell. “Please tell me some good news,” I whisper to him, my nails digging into my palm. “Your bedside manner sucks.” “I’m your good news.

Her healing mechanism’s stopped. The body doesn’t have enough of anything to keep going. Her brain’s seizing. A couple of organs have collapsed. Massive trauma. Interesting.” “Paul,” said Pyrrha, “your bedside manner is bullshit.” “It’s interesting. It’s not great. Nona, how do you feel?

I shall report this, and in the meantime the animal can be taken away by one of the porters.’ ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Emmy fiercely. ‘I’ll not allow it. You are—’ It was unfortunate that she was interrupted before she could finish. ‘Ah,’ said Professor ter Mennolt, looming behind the supervisor. ‘My kitten. Good of you to look after it for me, Ermentrude.’ He gave the supervisor a bland smile. ‘I am breaking the rules, am I not? But this seemed the best place for it to be until I could come and collect it.’ ‘Miss Foster has just told me…’ began the woman. ‘Out of the kindness of her heart,’ said the professor outrageously. ‘She had no wish to get me into trouble. Isn’t that correct, Ermentrude?’ She nodded, and watched while he soothed the supervisor’s feelings with a bedside manner which she couldn’t have faulted. ‘I will overlook your rudeness, Miss Foster,’ she said finally, and sailed away. ‘Where on earth did you find it?’ asked the professor with interest. She told him, then went on, ‘I’ll take him home. He’ll be nice company for Snoodles and George.’ ‘An excellent idea. Here is your relief. I shall be outside when you are ready.’ ‘Why?’ asked Emmy. ‘You sometimes ask silly questions, Ermentrude. To take you both home.

Nick leans down and kisses my eyelids. “Loving you, Zara, is a full-time job. It’s a great job, don’t get me wrong. It’s the best job in the universe. But it is not easy, because you tend to . . .” “Get hurt?” Betty suggests. “Find trouble? Pass out? Break arms?” “All of the above.” Nick laughs. My hand finds Nick’s wrist and I grab onto its thickness. “You know, I’m the patient here. Where’s the bedside manner? Where’s the sympathy?” “Zara, sympathy is just a good excuse to buy greeting cards and make sorry eyes and secretly gloat over how glad you are that you aren’t the person whose crap is hanging out there for the world to see,” Betty says.

Pray for the courage to cope, for understanding, and for acceptance of God’s plan. Pray for strength for the family and loved ones. Pray that the medical team will have the knowledge and compassion to do the best job that they can. Pray for peace and calmness and healing for the emotions, the spirit, and the body. Give thanks.

The most extraordinary story of appendectomy survival that I know of occurred aboard the U.S. submarine Seadragon in Japanese-controlled waters in the South China Sea during World War II when a sailor named Dean Rector from Kansas developed an acute and obvious case of appendicitis. With no qualified medical personnel on board, the commander ordered the ship’s pharmacist’s assistant, one Wheeler Bryson Lipes (of no known relation to the present author), to perform the surgery. Lipes protested that he had no medical training, did not know what an appendix looked like or where it was to be found, and had no surgical equipment to work with. The commander instructed him to do what he could anyway as the senior medical person aboard. Lipes’s bedside manner was not perhaps the most reassuring. His pep talk to Rector was this: “Look, Dean, I never did anything like this before, but you don’t have much chance

on without anesthesia. In a letter he describes: “I suffered agonies, as they related all to me, and did violence to myself in keeping to my seat. I could scarcely bear it.” Surgery on the penis, the rectum or the anus would have been a terrifying torture, especially if the patient was a five-year-old foreigner who couldn’t have possessed the coping skills, the insight or perhaps sufficient fluency in English to understand what was happening to him. It’s awful to consider what he might have imagined when a nurse changed his dressings, administered his medicines or appeared at his bedside with a supply of leeches if he had an inflammation believed to be due to an excess of blood. The nurse may have had a sweet bedside manner. She may have been strict and humorless. A typical requirement in those days was that she was single or widowed, ensuring that all her time could be devoted to the hospital. Nurses were underpaid. They worked long, grueling hours and were exposed to extraordinarily unpleasant conditions

Oh, Maude… I must have been mad to bring us here. It's hopeless to try to teach him anything about etiquette.” “I don't think so, milady,” came Maude's reply, as she cheerfully flipped aside the blond curls that had escaped the front of her coiffure. “After all, the master brought himself all the way from the rope ring to the fanciest estate in London. Surely being a gentleman is only one more step away.” “But it's the biggest step of all,” Holly said wryly. Rose picked up her doll and came to the bedside. “I'll help you, Mama. I'll teach Mr. Bronson all about his manners.” Holly gave her daughter a loving smile. “You're very sweet for wanting to help, darling. But I want you to have as little to do with Mr. Bronson as possible. He's… not a nice man.” “Yes, Mama,” Rose said dutifully, heaving a disappointed sigh.

I just . . . I just wanted to make sure you were . . . okay.” He shoved away from the door as he took a long stride toward her, letting the door slam behind him. “I should be asking you the same thing,” he said, cringing, his voice filled with concern. Violet knew how she looked. The bruise on her cheek had turned a strange combination of green, yellow, and purple. The swelling had gone down, but not enough for anyone else to notice. “I’m fine.” She hedged and then tried to shrug it off. “If you like bar-fight chic.” His face darkened. “I wasn’t really talking about what’s on the outside.” “You mean, like, it’s what’s on the inside that counts?” Rafe grimaced, the ghost of a smile finding his lips. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds sort of . . .” “Sweet?” “I was gonna say lame. But, yeah, that works too.” “Yeah? Well, you look . . .” She was going to say better, but she practically stumbled over the word. He looked anything but better. If she looked beat-up, he looked downright thrashed. Even behind the bandages, Violet could see scrapes and mottled skin. “Terrible. You look terrible.” She moved closer to him on the landing as he unlocked the closed door. “But better than the last time I saw you, I guess.” Rafe tried to laugh, but winced and grabbed his ribs. “Damn, V, I wouldn’t plan on a career in nursing if I were you; your bedside manner stinks.” His eyes clouded over when he saw her stroking the black onyx hanging from around her neck. “Krystal?” he asked. “For protection,” Violet clarified. “Um, yeah, I got one too. Mine’s for healing.” He tugged at the silver chain around his neck. He held up an irregular-looking stone that had been tucked beneath his shirt. It was cloudy—opaque—and Violet wondered at the mystical qualities Krystal believed it possessed. “I meant it’s from Krystal. Right?” “Oh, yeah . . . right.” She nodded, realizing she’d misunderstood his question.

Need some help?” He reached for the books in her arms before she could object. “Hey ...” She looked like a viper ready to strike, but then her pupils dilated as she stared up at him. “I’m sorry ... do I know you?” “No.” He offered her a smile, hoping to settle her nerves. He didn’t speak to many women, but when he did, he always got that same staggered expression. “But you looked as though you needed a third hand.” “I don’t think I could manage if I were an octopus.” He laughed. Beautiful and a sense of humor. Most of the women he knew were too serious. “Funny. Are you off to another lecture?” “No ... I’m late for work. I keep telling my boss not to schedule me on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but he doesn’t listen, and then — sorry. TMI. I tend to ramble on, something the professors keep fussing at me about. Thanks. I sent the message, so I can carry my books now. I’m not up on all these new gadgets.” She waved her phone. “This is my first cell phone. I can’t afford it, but I really needed it. ” She smacked her hand over her mouth and reached for her books. “See ... I never shut up.” Derrick couldn’t help but smile. She was so cute. “I’ll walk you to your car. That way if your boss replies, you can respond quickly.” Her eyes narrowed this time, a look he wasn’t accustomed to; the few women he talked to trusted him completely. Even the female professors said he had a wonderful bedside manner. “Umm ... it’s okay. I take the T.” “Would you like a lift, then, so you aren’t late?” She shook her head. “No. Thank you. I appreciate it ... but I don’t even know you.” “Derrick Ashton.” He offered her his hand. The young woman hesitantly extended her slender, creamy-skinned hand. Her hand looked so small and delicate in his larger, olive-skinned hand. “Nice to meet you, Derrick. I’m Janelle Heskin. But still ... ” Derrick released her after a second and lifted his hands in front of him. “I’m harmless, I swear. They wouldn’t have accepted me into medical school if I had a record, and I’m here because I want to help people, and you looked like you needed help.” She

There is something missing now...in me...since I've come out of my coma. There is a hole in me, empty and hungry to be filled." "Well, I am not a psychologist or a psychiatrist or any of the other psychos. In point of fact, I've been told on more than one occasion that I have a terrible bedside manner, that I am not compassionate, that I am distracted, abrupt, and condescending. So keep that in mind as I proceed, and take my advice with a grain of salt…I should also mention that I am also not a social worker, licensed or unlicensed…but what you describe is what everyone feels — everyone, all the time — according to my limited and anecdotal research. So take my advice: Forget about it. That hole is unfillable. Get on with your life. Go back to work. Get a hobby. Find a nice, achievable woman and settle down.

A placebo cure is almost always temporary, and we are looking for permanent resolution of the pain. Therefore, we would not be satisfied with a placebo cure. This is all too common. People are administered a large variety of physical treatments, feel better for a few days, and then need another treatment. (And, of course, they never overcome their fear of physical activity.) One of the reasons I know the TMS program does not induce a placebo reaction is the fact that almost all patients have permanent resolution of symptoms. A second reason is that the placebo effect is based on blind faith; patients know little or nothing about the disorder they have and the rationale for treatment. They simply trust the treating practitioner. The educational program employed in the treatment of TMS is the very opposite. I teach patients literally all I know about the disorder; they are encouraged to ask questions, and they are warned that they must find the diagnosis logical and consistent. Their recovery depends on information, on awareness. They are active participants in the recovery process. This is anything but a placebo process. Perhaps the most compelling argument that what we do is not a placebo is the fact that on numerous occasions since the publication of the book Mind Over Back Pain, the predecessor of this one, people have reported complete and permanent resolution of pain simply by reading the book. There is no personality influence here, no bedside manner; just plain, solid information. And we have learned that that's what it takes to banish TMS. (page 109)

I came to realise that psychiatry is one of the only medical specialties (I would also include general practitioners in this category) where personality and bedside manner were not just a bonus, they were essential.

Told me that if I wasn’t willing to do the dirty work, I’d better find another profession. That what folks need is a doctor who’s willing to get his hands dirty and still look at them with compassion and dignity. You might say that ‘attitude adjustment’ became the basis of my bedside manner. Made me consider what people need versus what I, in my ivory tower, wanted to give them.

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Does it count as bad bedside manner if you’re the one in bed? Trying to make us both equally comfortable?

He caught her hand, his thumb feathering across the inside of her wrist. I am not a vampire. I have not turned. “I don’t understand.” He closed his eyes, smiled in his mind. She was back to using her professional, scientific voice. You were worried that I had turned. Earlier, in the woods, you were afraid I was a vampire. Just now you thought our people might be vampire. We are Carpathian, not the undead. Unless we turn. “Would you stay out of my head? Wait until you’re invited.” If I waited for an invitation from you, little red hair, I would be centuries old before it ever came about. The smile in his mind was just a little too sexy for her peace of mind. I was merely attempting to ease your fears. Now he sounded innocent. She laughed softly. “Do I have naïve stamped on my forehead?” Has anyone ever complained about your bedside manner? Shea raised her eyebrows. “I’m a surgeon. I don’t need a bedside manner. And in any case, I’ve never had such an outrageous patient before. Stop calling me red hair. And little red hair. And all the other things you call me. Dr. O’Halloran is appropriate.” For the first time his sensuous mouth softened, curved into a grin. The effect on her was shattering. It wasn’t right for a male to look that sexy. He should be banned from all female company. Handsome and sexy. I must be getting somewhere after all. His tone was lazy, teasing, a little bit husky. Shea laughed softly. It was impossible to be annoyed with him when he was in this mood. “You are handsome and sexy, but don’t let it go to your head. You’re also arrogant, dominating, and too ruthless for my taste.” She squashed him without a qualm. Jacques tugged on her hand, drew her close to the bed so that he could bring her palm to the warmth of his mouth. I am exactly to your taste.

Did somebody die?” “Yes,” I replied. “Who?” he asked, starting to freak out. I pulled out my notepad and asked him if he knew a Marcie Tucker. “Marcie? Hm, Marcie, it doesn't ring a bell but… Oh yeah, the temp who's filling in while my regular assistant is out, I think her name is Marcie. In fact, she was supposed to be here today. I was actually starting to worry that… Wait. Is she…” “Unfortunately yes,” I said, “Marcie was found in her apartment late last night uh… no longer alive.” My bedside manner has never been my strong suit. Dr. Taggart looked distressed and began to ramble incoherently for a minute. I let him work through it though, I figured it was his way of grieving. I wouldn't have even paid attention to it except for the fact that it was kind of goofily, ineptly… well, poignant: "Oh, uh, Oh my God. That's terrible. I uh… I hope she didn't have any family. I mean, I don't hope she didn't have any family, what I mean is, if she uh… if she didn't have any family then there would be nobody to get all bummed out about this and uh… you know, when something like this happens, you always think about the poor, heartbroken family, so uh… if she doesn't have any family then uh… the bright side would be that nobody would, you know, have to be all bummed out." Hm. I guess I never thought of it that way. Awkward wording aside, he's kind of got a point there.

Naomi coughed. It was wet, painful sound, but the medical bay didn't seem concerned. The machine had a shitty bedside manner.

I let out a hiss through my teeth. How could I even begin to close these? "That sounds promising," Raihn said. "I just—I'm sorry for what I'm about to do to you." "I'm glad your bedside manner is about as delicate as I would have expected.

I said softly, “You told me before that you had a lot of people relying on you.” Raihn’s smile faded. “I do.” “Who?” “I’d rather have more sex than this conversation. Glad your pillow talk is about as pleasant as your bedside manner, princess.

He doesn’t have the best bedside manner. He can be uncompromising. He wouldn’t have appreciated Meredith being there, questioning him, undermining his decisions.

Perhaps, just perhaps, you’re there. How little he needs. Just love. More love. — Christopher Wiseman, from “Bedside Manners,” Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, eds. Phyllis Cole-Dai & Ruby R. Wilson (Grayson Books, 2017)

A century ago, as physicians were slowly professionalizing and medicine was on the cusp of becoming scientific, a Boston doctor named Ernest Amory Codman had an idea similar in spirit to forecaster scorekeeping. He called it the End Result System. Hospitals should record what ailments incoming patients had, how they were treated, and—most important—the end result of each case. These records should be compiled and statistics released so consumers could choose hospitals on the basis of good evidence. Hospitals would respond to consumer pressure by hiring and promoting doctors on the same basis. Medicine would improve, to the benefit of all. “Codman’s plan disregarded a physician’s clinical reputation or social standing as well as bedside manner or technical skills,” noted the historian Ira Rutkow. “All that counted were the clinical consequences of a doctor’s effort.”8 Today, hospitals do much of what Codman demanded, and more, and physicians would find it flabbergasting if anyone suggested they stop. But the medical establishment saw it differently when Codman first proposed the idea.

You often hear that a physician’s bedside manner is more or less irrelevant. The theory seems to suggest that you just want someone who coldly, mechanically, robotically does the job, who doesn’t get distracted by emotion, who lives by that old saw that you’d rather have a surgeon who cuts straight and cares less. Ingrid, Simon knew, believed the opposite. You want a real person—a caring, empathic person—to be your physician. You want a person who sees you as a fellow human being who is scared and hurting and in need of reassurance and comfort. It was a responsibility Ingrid took very seriously. When a parent brought their child to see her—well, step back and think about it: When are you ever more vulnerable? You’re stressed, you’re terrified, you’re confused. Physicians who do not understand that, who act as though you are an anatomical object in need of repair like a MacBook visiting the Genius Bar are going to not only make the experience more miserable but they will miss something in the diagnosis.

Smile Before Pills (Sonnet 1402) The only permanence we have is each other, The only paradise we have is each other. Heaven is as real as we are to each other, Most potent medicine we have is each other. One moment of love is time eternal, 100 years of hate are but ghost of wild past. One rebellion of love is destiny in making, 100 rituals of hate are just monkeys' mass. A smile works faster than a pill, both metaphorically and physiologically. Pills take hours to reach your bloodstream, while a smile triggers instant release of neurochemicals, which alleviates pain and facilitates immunity. Sure, pills and prescriptions are a scientific boon, They achieve wonders where organic powers fall short. Yet, there is no prescription for a mannerless medico, There is no pharmaceutical cure for a medical upstart.

Morbid anatomy is essential to training and research, but leads many doctors into thinking that life is an agitation in something essentially dead. They treat patients’ bodies as if the minds, the lives were of no account. The smooth bedside manner we cultivate is seldom more than a cheap anaesthetic to make our patients as passive as the corpses we train upon.

The book, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, was written in 1986 by a minister, Robert Fulghum, and it’s full of simple-sounding life advice, like “share everything,” “play fair,” and “clean up after your own mess.” Chen believes that these skills—the elementary, pre-literate skills of treating other people well, acting ethically, and behaving in prosocial ways, all of which I consider “analog ethics”—are badly needed for an age in which our value will come from our ability to relate to other people. He writes: While I know that we’ll need to layer on top of that foundation a set of practical and technical know-how, I agree with [Fulghum] that a foundation rich in EQ [emotional quotient] and compassion and imagination and creativity is the perfect springboard to prepare people—the doctors with the best bedside manner, the sales reps solving my actual problems, crisis counselors who really understand when we’re in crisis—for a machine-learning powered future in which humans and algorithms are better together. Research has indicated that teaching analog ethics can be effective. One 2015 study that tracked children from kindergarten through young adulthood found that people who had developed strong prosocial, noncognitive skills—traits like positivity, empathy, and regulating one’s own emotions—were more likely to be successful as adults. Another study in 2017 found that kids who participated in “social-emotional” learning programs were more likely to graduate from college, were arrested

Where are your pills?” Daniel said. “Bathroom.” “We’ll find them,” I said, and started to go. Corey grabbed my sleeve. “Stay.” “Good idea,” Sam said. “My bedside manner sucks. I’ll help Daniel.

Don’t start believing you’re a monster. The way you touch me sometimes, with such tenderness, that is no monster.” Her body was restless, a need moving over her, through her, a need she had never known before. “You wanted me, Jacques, yet you stopped yourself. You’re no monster.” Maybe my wounds stopped me, not my self control. She had stopped him with her acceptance of the beast in him. “You’re tired, Jacques. Sleep for a while.” He caught her hand, his thumb feathering across the inside of her wrist.. I am not a vampire. I have not turned. “I don’t understand.” He closed his eyes, smiled in his mind. She was back to using her professional, scientific voice. You were worried that I had turned. Earlier, in the woods, you were afraid I was a vampire. Just now you thought our people might be vampire. We are Carpathian, not the undead. Unless we turn. “Would you stay out of my head? Wait until you’re invited.” If I waited for an invitation from you, little red hair, I would be centuries old before it ever came about. The smile in his mind was just a little too sexy for her peace of mind. I was merely attempting to ease your fears. Now he sounded innocent. She laughed softly. “Do I have naïve stamped on my forehead?” Has anyone ever complained about your bedside manner? Shea raised her eyebrows. “I’m a surgeon. I don’t need a bedside manner. And in any case, I’ve never had such an outrageous patient before. Stop calling me red hair. And little red hair. And all the other things you call me. Dr. O’Halloran is appropriate.

Would you stay out of my head? Wait until you’re invited.” If I waited for an invitation from you, little red hair, I would be centuries old before it ever came about. The smile in his mind was just a little too sexy for her peace of mind. I was merely attempting to ease your fears. Now he sounded innocent. She laughed softly. “Do I have naïve stamped on my forehead?” Has anyone ever complained about your bedside manner? Shea raised her eyebrows. “I’m a surgeon. I don’t need a bedside manner. And in any case, I’ve never had such an outrageous patient before. Stop calling me red hair. And little red hair. And all the other things you call me. Dr. O’Halloran is appropriate.” For the first time his sensuous mouth softened, curved into a grin. The effect on her was shattering. It wasn’t right for a male to look that sexy. He should be banned from all female company. Handsome and sexy. I must be getting somewhere after all. His tone was lazy, teasing, a little bit husky. Shea laughed softly. It was impossible to be annoyed with him when he was in this mood. “You are handsome and sexy, but don’t let it go to your head. You’re also arrogant, dominating, and too ruthless for my taste.” She squashed him without a qualm. Jacques tugged on her hand, drew her close to the bed so that he could bring her palm to the warmth of his mouth. I am exactly to your taste. She yanked her hand away as if he had burned her, rubbing her palm along her thigh. The feeling didn’t go away, and neither did the butterflies he had sent winging in her stomach. “How do you know you’re not a vampire?” She needed to distract him, distract both of them. “Maybe you forgot. You’re certainly capable of acting like one.” This time he laughed, startling both of them. The sound was husky, low, and foreign to his ears, as if he had forgotten what it was like. His black eyes leapt to her face almost in fear. “Not bad, wild man. First a growl, and now a laugh. We’re making progress.” Her eyes danced at him, reassured him. Joy welled up in the midst of pain. Shea. She had created a world where his soul could somehow touch light.

the bedside, stripped him of his clothes, and introduced Károly to the many delicious debaucheries men did with one another in private. In the manner of a virgin youth who had barely conceived of such pleasures, Károly went along with thunderstruck abandon and great multitudes of gratitude.

How little he needs. Just love. More love. — Christopher Wiseman, from “Bedside Manners,” Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, eds. Phyllis Cole-Dai & Ruby R. Wilson (Grayson Books, 2017)

For a doctor, I’d have to say, your bedside manner is lacking.” I swear I see just a brief bit of amusement glimmer in his eyes. “I’m a surgeon, a bone man, Ms. Bloom. If I can’t fix it, I nail it or screw it.

Singh will crunch numbers, Evgeni will work the logistics of a fix, and I’ll make sure we don’t die from our own mutated bacteria in the meantime. Oh. And fix our eyes. Easy as pie. Nothing to worry about.” “Your bedside manner is amazing.” “I know; I’m a born healer. Keep your legs straight. We don’t want your veins cramping up. There you go.” The sleep sack moved body fluids from the extremities back to the center. At first the pressure was like crawling ants, but gradually the rhythmic pulsing had become as necessary to sleep as darkness. Sadly, it did little for sight. Evgeni’s vision loss was ahead of the curve, but Nedda had noticed a significant softening in her own world. The pressure suits, contacts, goggles, and sleep sacks were supposed to help, but the progressive astigmatism continued. “When I’m up again, test my eyes, okay?” “Sure thing.” Sleep weeks were to slow vision loss and ease the passage of time, making a five-year trip feel like half that. Crew morale was supposed to benefit from them; less time awake with your crewmates meant less time to learn to dislike them, and less time to look out into the blackness of space, dissociating, dislocating.

A patient said to me one day, “Never lose your bedside manner. I’m sure lots of people can care for the eye, but not everyone can care for the patient as well.

Next is the vegetative state (VS), which I wrote about in chapter 2. VS patients, in contrast to comatose ones, have irregular cycles of eye opening and closure. They can swallow, yawn, may move their eyes or head but not in an intentional manner. No willed actions are left—only activity that controls basic processes such as breathing, sleep–wake transitions, heart rate, eye movements, and pupillary responses. Bedside communication—“If you hear me, squeeze my hand or move your eyes”—meets with failure. With proper nursing care to avoid bedsores and infections, VS patients can live for years.

Tutti taitti,” replied the glover; “neither Rome nor Perth were built in a day. Thou hast fished salmon a thousand times, and mightst have taken a lesson. When the fish has taken the fly, to pull a hard strain on the line would snap the tackle to pieces, were it made of wire. Ease your hand, man, and let him rise; take leisure, and in half an hour thou layest him on the bank. There is a beginning as fair as you could wish, unless you expect the poor wench to come to thy bedside as she did to thy chair;

accompanying her when she had gone to someone’s house to put down an old Border collie. Even though he was only a bystander, Ben had felt almost as bereft as the dog’s owner. His sister, he discovered—hardly a surprise if you knew her—had a lovely bedside manner in the face of death.