The patient asks if this pain means more.
And honestly—who knows?
A symptom? A story?
Or something the labs cannot hold.
They speak of God. Quietly.
As if unsure it belongs here.
But where else would it belong
if not in rooms where people break and hope?
The chart stays clean.
But the room feels full—
of guilt, of grace,
of something that won’t fit into SOAP notes.
How much healing is missed
because the soul was left in the waiting room?
Can silence be diagnostic?
Can presence, not procedure, be the care?
Care used to mean listening.
Now it counts pulses, not prayers.
When did medicine stop asking why—
and start only measuring what?
Competing Interests
None declared.