First Do No Harm

Trigger/Content Warning: Illness and wrongful patient death

On a cold and rainy Washington fall evening, Dr. Summer Smith adjusted the microphone stand with trembling fingers as a sea of reporters filled the Seattle Hope Memorial Hospital pressroom. Cameras clicked relentlessly, capturing every micro-expression, every subtle sign of emotion, and every crack in her voice. She took a deep breath, clutching a small stack of index cards with her neatly written notes, but it was no use. No script could frame this moment. She looked up and caught the gaze of the Martinez family in the front row: Mrs. Martinez’s nephew, Diego, his wife, Elena, and their three children, sitting somberly with red-rimmed eyes. The sight nearly broke her. 

“I owe all of you an apology,” Summer began, her voice barely above a whisper. A hush fell over the room as her words reverberated through the microphones. 

She steadied herself, gripping the edges of the podium. “I failed Mrs. Martinez and, in doing so, I failed you. My duty as a physician is clear: to first do no harm, to care for my patients with compassion and respect, and above all, to uphold the sanctity of human life. But in my pursuit to give her the life she dreamed of, I blatantly and carelessly disregarded the risks. And for that, I am profoundly sorry.” 

Two months earlier, Mrs. Carmen Martinez had shuffled into Summer’s office with her usual wit and grumbling cheer. She’d insisted on walking, waving away the wheelchair nurse like she was swatting at a fly. At seventy-six, she was small and spry, her frame adorned with a colorful scarf wrapped around her wispy gray hair and a tote bag jingling with the sound of her beloved postcards. 

“So, Doc,” she said, settling into the chair with a loud sigh. “What’s the prognosis today? You still planning on keeping me hostage here?” 

Summer had chuckled, leaning forward. “No one’s keeping you hostage, Mrs. Martinez. But I’m afraid your condition hasn’t improved as much as we hoped. The circulation issues in your legs are still severe, and—” 

“Bah!” Mrs. Martinez waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t need these legs to work miracles. I just need them to walk the streets of Istanbul or Rome, climb a flight of stairs at the Louvre, or...oh, I don’t know, dance the salsa in some tiny Cuban bar.” She shot Summer a mischievous smile. 

It was impossible not to smile back. Carmen Martinez had been a fixture of the hospital for years, treating her various ailments with humor and stubborn resilience. She walked the corridors daily, bantering with patients, nurses, orderlies, and doctors alike, collecting stories and laughter wherever she went. But Summer knew the truth behind the banter: the weariness in her eyes, the resentment of confinement, the loneliness that even postcards from exotic locations couldn’t mend. 

“You’ve been saying that for years now, Doc. What’s the harm in trying something different this time?” 

And so Summer had proposed the experimental drug. 

Panacea Pharmaceuticals had described it as a potential breakthrough, promising to reverse arterial degeneration and enhance cellular recovery in elderly patients. The drug’s side effects were “minimal,” but it hadn’t been through FDA approval. Yet Summer had argued for compassionate use. Mrs. Martinez had nothing left to lose, and everything to gain. 

The drug worked. 

Within three weeks, Mrs. Martinez no longer shuffled; she strode. Her blood flow improved; her breathing steadied. All her vitals improved. She sat in Summer’s office, triumphant and teary-eyed as Summer handed her discharge papers. 

“You’re officially free to go live that life you’ve always wanted,” Summer had said. 

“I owe you one, Doc,” Mrs. Martinez had replied. 

Summer closed her eyes now, wishing the story ended there. 

It didn’t. 

Two weeks later, she’d received the news. Mrs. Martinez had boarded a plane to Spain, a place she had dreamed of for decades. She had sent a postcard from Barcelona. I saw the Sagrada Família today, it read in her spidery scrawl. Gaudí was nuts, but he sure made one hell of a church. 

The next postcard never arrived. Mrs. Martinez had been found unresponsive in her hotel room in Ibiza, a cluster of experimental side effects causing catastrophic cardiac arrest. 

“Mrs. Martinez was more than a patient to us,” Summer said now, voice cracking. “She was family to the staff of Seattle Hope, someone who brought light and laughter into our halls, inviting doctors and nurses to watch Jeopardy with her on our breaks. She taught us to dream, even when life confines us. I only wish...” Her breath caught. “I only wish she were here to tell us all about those dreams she finally got to live—however short that time was.” 

Diego Martinez stood up abruptly, his chair scraping the floor. 

“Dr. Smith,” he said, his voice tight with emotion. “You gave my aunt something none of us ever could. You gave her freedom. My aunt...she might have died two weeks ago, but those two weeks?” He smiled faintly, the ghost of his grief visible. “They were the happiest of her life. She went places she’d only dreamed of, saw things she’d only imagined. We have pictures and memories because of you.” He paused, glancing back at his family. “Thank you for that.” 

Summer’s knees nearly gave way with relief, but the weight of the moment remained. Diego’s words were kind, but they didn’t absolve her. Nothing ever would. 

After the conference, Summer lingered in the now-empty room. Diego approached, holding something in his hand. 

“My aunt wanted you to have this,” he said softly, handing over a worn postcard. The image was of the Hagia Sophia, its domes and minarets bathed in golden light. On the back, Mrs. Martinez had written a simple note: 

Dear Doc, I made it. Thank you. 

Summer clutched the postcard to her chest, tears slipping silently down her face. Mrs. Martinez had lived her life at last. Perhaps she had forgiven her. 

But could she ever forgive herself?