May They Share in It Too

The next morning, before rounds began, I went to see him. He had come safely through surgery the day before and was now propped up in bed, a tray table pulled close, reading a newspaper someone had brought. When he saw me, he folded the paper and greeted me with a warm smile. He said he had just passed gas—a small, almost comic detail, but after an appendectomy it was the crucial sign that the bowels were waking up and he could start eating again. I told him to try soft foods first and that he might be able to leave the hospital the next day. He smiled again, that same unassuming smile, and said there was no need to hurry since he had nowhere particular to go.

At that moment, a thought flashed across my mind. As soon as rounds ended, I hurried to the hospital’s HR office. I asked the staff there if there might be any job suitable for a man in his sixties. I had once noticed someone tending the hospital gardens and wondered if they might need extra help. If so, I wanted to make sure my patient, scheduled for discharge tomorrow, didn’t miss the chance to apply.

The officer said they would look into it and asked which patient I was talking about. I wrote down his ward and bed number on a scrap of paper and left, my steps light. Of course, a resident has no influence over hiring, nor should he. But if I could at least make sure this man heard about any opening, that would be enough.

The next morning, I found him in his street clothes, preparing to leave. He stopped me, rummaged in his bedside drawer, and handed me a small bottle of vitamin drink.

“Dr. Shin? This is all I have to give you.”

I laughed and waved my hand, but he pressed me again, and it felt wrong to refuse a third time. I accepted it. Then he spoke, almost sheepishly.

“The HR people came by yesterday. You really didn’t have to go to such trouble. I’m sorry for causing you extra work.”

“Not at all,” I said. “Did they mention anything? Any positions you might be able to do?”

“Not right now. They said they’d let me know if something comes up. I’ll have to keep looking on my own.”

He thanked me again and again. But instead of feeling proud, I felt a pang of guilt. Had I unintentionally dented his pride? My gesture was meant to help, yet here I was being thanked for something that had yielded nothing. To cut short my own awkwardness, I simply wished him luck in finding good work and slipped out.

By lunchtime, when I came back to his ward for another patient, his bed was already empty, freshly made for the next admission. I stood still for a moment, staring at the vacant bed. And then, unbidden, an old dream stirred in my mind.

In the not-too-distant future, they say, patients will be able to see their doctors from home—safe, familiar, and free from the long waits in crowded outpatient clinics. For many, it will be a blessing. It won’t just spare them the inconvenience of travel and waiting; it will also reduce the risk of infections that arise when so many sick people gather in one place.

But then a troubling thought struck me: would my patient from yesterday share in that blessing? To consult a doctor from home requires equipment, connectivity, and, most likely, regular payments. Those with some measure of financial security will gain access; those without will not. One person may enjoy remote care from a luxury high-rise apartment, while another—perhaps the very security guard working in that same building—may find the whole idea a world apart.

“Why not just keep using hospitals?” one might ask. Yet technology will reshape hospitals too. Eric Topol has predicted that future hospitals will expand facilities for outpatient care, surgery, and intensive care, while reducing ordinary inpatient wards. If he is right, those unable to access home-based care will be left scrambling for too few hospital beds. What looks like a blessing for some could prove a curse for others.

The desire for safer, more convenient care will continue to drive innovation, and no one can stop that tide. Remote medicine will inevitably become one of the pillars of healthcare. Infectious disease outbreaks, which flare up every so often and disrupt daily life, will only hasten its adoption.

But the taller the building, the longer the shadow it casts. As telemedicine becomes the norm, the worries of those excluded will deepen. Someone must look back and ask what life is like for the ones left behind. Not a selective telemedicine for the privileged, but a universal one for all—that became another dream of mine, an ordinary surgical resident with perhaps an extraordinary hope.