As an orthopaedic surgeon, I’m used to offering clear-cut solutions.
A hip fracture? Operate. Fix it. Let the patient walk again within days.
That’s the rhythm I know—precise surgery, measurable recovery, quick discharge.
But recently I met patients who didn’t fit this rhythm, and they exposed something in my heart.
The Patients Who Wouldn’t Leave
One patient had a fracture that, medically, could be treated non-operatively.
The cast was set, the X-rays looked good. Yet he lingered, spiking unexplained fevers. Each day we checked vitals, reviewed labs, adjusted antibiotics—yet no breakthrough came. There was simply…waiting.
Another patient suffered a severe skin infection near the ankle. We debrided the wound and prepared for skin grafts, but healing demanded time. Cultures had to be clear. Dressings needed to be changed. Again, waiting.
In both cases, my scalpel could do no more. And that made me restless.
What This Exposed in Me
1. A Narrow View of Healthcare
I realised how easily I equated “good medicine” with a quick operation and fast discharge. My thinking had shrunk until healthcare looked like a single, well-oiled machine where my surgical act was the whole show. But real care is more like a Formula 1 pit stop. Every system—medical, nursing, allied health, social support—has to be ready before the car can leave.
In that picture, I am only one technician, the “tire changer,” not the entire crew. The engine of infection control, the fuel of social support, the electronics of rehab and community services all matter. When I define success only by my own procedure, I rob patients of the broader healing that happens beyond the operating theatre. Seeing this forced me to confront how self-centered my professional lens had become.
2. Overlooking the Patient’s Inner World
Daily ward rounds can become checklists: pain scores, dressing condition, lab results. It’s easy to miss the long, slow emotional toll of hospitalization—the fear, the boredom, the loneliness. Yet my brief moments at the bedside can still carry weight.
Sometimes the most important thing I can do is pull up a chair, listen to frustrations, and offer encouragement or prayer. I may not have half an hour to counsel each patient in depth, but I can recognise when to involve social workers or chaplains and invite spiritual care. Medicine isn’t only about closing wounds; it’s also about opening space for hope.
3. The Words I Use
I’ve heard—and at times carelessly echoed—phrases like “bad logs” for patients who remain admitted. Such language subtly dehumanizes. It trains us to see people as obstacles to bed turnover rather than image-bearers with stories and struggles.
Being careful with my words, both in front of patients and behind their backs, is a way of honouring their dignity. It reminds me that they are not statistics but men and women loved by God, with families waiting and anxieties we may never fully grasp.
4. Forgetting Our Shared Limits
Finally, these cases uncovered my impatience with the slow work of a team. I sometimes catch myself wondering why social workers need so much time to coordinate care, or why infectious disease specialists take days to finalise cultures. But the truth is, if any of us could do every task, we wouldn’t need one another.
The apostle Paul’s words fit perfectly: “So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth” (1 Cor 3:7). We are each entrusted with a slice of the process—planting, watering, monitoring—but only God brings true growth. Recognising this lets me extend grace to colleagues and accept my own limits without resentment.
How the Gospel Reframes My Work
These slow journeys remind me that ultimate healing never rests in my skill.
God alone sustains life and determines the pace of recovery. My calling is to serve faithfully—sometimes by operating, other times by waiting, listening, and encouraging.
In Christ, my identity is secure even when my hands are idle. He is the true Healer, and every patient’s story unfolds on His timetable. That truth frees me to love, to wait, and to trust.
“Some plant, some water, but God gives the growth.”
May every long ward round remind me of that bigger picture—and point both patient and surgeon to the One who truly makes us whole.