Names and details have been changed for confidentiality.

“You’re free this morning right? Good. I’m in theatre – go and take histories from these patients.”

As my general surgery HMO rapidly lists off names, bed numbers and conditions, I fumble with my pen to write it all down. Bed 204, day 3 post-whipple. Bed 205, day 6 post-cholecystectomy. Bed 209, two years of esophageal cancer with a tracheobronchial fistula, having a stent inserted tomorrow.

At this point, I’ve lost track of what she’s saying and for the last two patients, I only manage to write down their bed number. It’ll be fine though, I tell myself. I’ll just talk to one or two and call it a day.

“I’ll be done around 1pm. Let’s grab lunch together then and you can present those cases to me.”

Damn. No escape.

“Thanks Dr. Wu. See you then.” Beep.

As I walk into the hospital, I look down at the five bed numbers on my notes and realise I am terrified. I have no idea what half of these procedures mean, and am not in a talking mood at all. But because I have only three hours to talk to everyone, I walk past reception and press the lift.

I find room 201 quickly, then 202 and 203 next to it. Tiptoeing next to 204, I peek through the crack. It’s an elderly man with glasses reading a novel on his bed. I can’t quite make out the title, but it looks like one of those crime or drama books hospitals love to sell. He looks happy reading his book, I think. Maybe I should tell Dr. Wu he was busy.

But then, a realisation hits. What am I so scared of? This interaction is only mine to gain, with nothing to lose. I could learn so much from his story, having not studied gastrointestinal conditions for nearly a year. Feeling encouraged, I walk through the door.

“Knock knock,” I say. He puts down his book and looks at me curiously. I squint my eyes so it looks like I’m smiling through my mask. “I’m Eric, the medical student here… could I have a chat with you on why you’ve come into hospital?”

Without the slightest hesitation, he puts his book down, smiles at me and says, “grab a seat.” I breathe a sigh of relief and begin transcribing his story.

And what a story! As well as explaining his complex medical history, he spoke about his experience starting a family business, his fascination with crime books and his multiple injuries playing football. He revealed his emotions upon first hearing his diagnosis and I felt myself welling up inside. He told all this with dignity and humour, always looking me in the eye. When the dietitician shooed me away to speak to him, I didn’t want to go.

The other patients were similar. Standing outside their room, I felt palpable fear. What if they didn’t like me? What if I didn’t like them? What if, what if, what if…

But looking back, these interactions were special. There is something extraordinary about uncovering somebody’s life, seeing the world through their perspective, and simultaneously sharing the same space as them. If I decided to cower away at the door, too tired or scared to enter, I would have missed out on these moments.

This day reminded me of two things:

• Courage is not the absence of fear, but acting in spite of fear
• The best things often lie on the other side of fear

May we all lean into our fears.