[.ca] Death of the Good Doctor: Lessons from the Heart of the ... (ISBN 1573440914)

From Amazon.com:
An elegant and touching account of her tenure as clinical director of a county hospital's AIDS ward at the height of the epidemic (1985 to 1990), Kate Scannell's Death of the Good Doctor records her journey from the aggressive, invasive, never-say-die medicine that she had been trained to perform to a more compassionate, realistic practice in which she might be just as likely to prescribe fresh pastries or an outing as she would antibiotics or extensive laboratory tests. Structured around the stories of 11 of her most memorable patients, Scannell's narrative skillfully conjures the panic years of the AIDS crisis--political squabbles, public indifference, and the roller coaster of medical "breakthroughs" that proved dangerous or ineffective--always returning to the individual and the small acts of kindness that make a difference to the terminally ill. Her own recent diagnosis with cancer adds a poignancy to her reflections that is not lost on Scannell. Writing of AIDS years after leaving her post and returning to research, she explains that she is "moving between grief and acceptance of this disease": "After a dark period of responding to so much suffering and death with unmitigated grief and defiance, I have been able finally to find some peace, walking more comfortably, day-to-day, alongside the certainty of my own death." --Regina Marler

Very beautiful, very sad, ultimately reaffirming:
Make no mistake: this book can be very tough sledding. Reading about the sad, often lonely, always uncomfortable deaths Scannell's patients suffered would be tough for any but the most hard-hearted reader to take. How could anyone not cry when reading about the dying man who wanted nothing more than to end his life in the midwestern home he grew up in, yet was forbidden to do so -- and therefore died alone, far away -- because his parents feared his son's illness would turn their small community against them? Yet it is against this backdrop of sadness and isolation that Scannell writes about her tender, compassionate, and often very creative ways of caring for her patients. Through her eyes we can see that, even when there is no hope of extending life, the lives of the dying can still be valued and enriched in the time they do still have. On a personal note, although I haven't lost nearly as many friends to HIV/AIDS in the last 20 years as some have, I have still attended far more than my share of memorial services and have said goodbye (or worse, not had the chance to say goodbye) to a handful of friends who I sometimes still cannot believe are really gone. I remember all too well the dark days Scannell writes about, and am grateful that advances in medicine since the mid-90s have helped reduce the terrible loss of human life. But the lessons Scannell offers are timeless and independent of person or illness. I don't recommend this book if you are currently coming to terms with a loss, because it may prove to be too painful. But if you are starting to lose your faith in mankind and need a dose of humanity, reading a few chapters of Scannell's book can offer a healthy reorientation.

Very beautiful, very sad, ultimately reaffirming:
Make no mistake: this book can be very tough sledding. Reading about the sad, often lonely, always uncomfortable deaths Scannell's patients suffered would be tough for any but the most hard-hearted reader to take. How could anyone not cry when reading about the dying man who wanted nothing more than to end his life in the midwestern home he grew up in, yet was forbidden to do so -- and therefore died alone, far away -- because his parents feared his son's illness would turn their small community against them? Yet it is against this backdrop of sadness and isolation that Scannell writes about her tender, compassionate, and often very creative ways of caring for her patients. Through her eyes we can see that, even when there is no hope of extending life, the lives of the dying can still be valued and enriched in the time they do still have. On a personal note, although I haven't lost nearly as many friends to HIV/AIDS in the last 20 years as some have, I have still attended far more than my share of memorial services and have said goodbye (or worse, not had the chance to say goodbye) to a handful of friends who I sometimes still cannot believe are really gone. I remember all too well the dark days Scannell writes about, and am grateful that advances in medicine since the mid-90s have helped reduce the terrible loss of human life. But the lessons Scannell offers are timeless and independent of person or illness. I don't recommend this book if you are currently coming to terms with a loss, because it may prove to be too painful. But if you are starting to lose your faith in mankind and need a dose of humanity, reading a few chapters of Scannell's book can offer a healthy reorientation.

Very beautiful, very sad, ultimately reaffirming:
Make no mistake: this book can be very tough sledding. Reading about the sad, often lonely, always uncomfortable deaths Scannell's patients suffered would be tough for any but the most hard-hearted reader to take. How could anyone not cry when reading about the dying man who wanted nothing more than to end his life in the midwestern home he grew up in, yet was forbidden to do so -- and therefore died alone, far away -- because his parents feared his son's illness would turn their small community against them? Yet it is against this backdrop of sadness and isolation that Scannell writes about her tender, compassionate, and often very creative ways of caring for her patients. Through her eyes we can see that, even when there is no hope of extending life, the lives of the dying can still be valued and enriched in the time they do still have. On a personal note, although I haven't lost nearly as many friends to HIV/AIDS in the last 20 years as some have, I have still attended far more than my share of memorial services and have said goodbye (or worse, not had the chance to say goodbye) to a handful of friends who I sometimes still cannot believe are really gone. I remember all too well the dark days Scannell writes about, and am grateful that advances in medicine since the mid-90s have helped reduce the terrible loss of human life. But the lessons Scannell offers are timeless and independent of person or illness. I don't recommend this book if you are currently coming to terms with a loss, because it may prove to be too painful. But if you are starting to lose your faith in mankind and need a dose of humanity, reading a few chapters of Scannell's book can offer a healthy reorientation.

The Birth of a Remarkable Doctor:
This is one of the most touching, beautiful books I have ever read. Scannell shares her life with her readers and honors the memories of her AIDS patients through her her series of "anecdotes." Each chapter is a different story, or memory, making it easy to read over a span of a week or more, or even in a day. In it, she touches upon a variety of issues like healthcare, sexuality, gender, death, family, and fear and she talks about her evolving from a good doctor (i.e. seeing the patient's physical needs) to a compassionate doctor (treating the patient holistically and considering their emotional needs). In the last chapter she reflects on her five years of experience on an AIDS ward and how it helps her cope with her discovery that she has cancer. When I read this book, I felt like she was next to me in person telling me these stories. I laughed; I got sad; I felt hopeful. This is a testament to human life, and I would recommend this easy read to anyone.

I want her to be my doctor when I die.:
What a wonderful set of truths Scannell reveals in her experiences of caring for dying patients. Honest, raw, funny experiences that shed light into a world few of us can ever know. How great, too, that she "expands the traditional narrative" of physicians' lives.