A Hospital Story

A Hospital Story

Dr. Henry Morgan walked briskly down the hallway to the hospital ward where he worked. Henry had been a doctor for close to twenty years. His specialisation was psychiatry. He was a tall, handsome man in his late forties. He had been considered quite the heartthrob when he first began his residency at Toronto General. Then he had been a dashing young man of twenty-five; a committed, brilliant perfectionist. His keen mind, gentle hands and striking looks brought him much attention. More than one of the nurses had a crush on him in those years. But anyone who got to know him quickly learned that his true love was his work. He was a dedicated physician. He spent longer hours on the wards than almost anyone else. There was no room in that lifestyle for a wife, and he dated very little. Most often, the women he dated quickly realised that he loved his patients in a intense, focused, tender way. They could never compete with it. They would always come second. He was meticulous in his care of the patients. He loved them in the truest sense of the word – not in a sexual way, but with the understanding and compassion of a wise father.

Now he was older. His black hair had turned to salt-and-pepper gray, and there were deep lines in his face, brought on by years of stress. His dark eyes, however, still held the same intelligent gleam.
As Henry made his way to the ward, he thought about his patients. He had been attracted to psychiatry by the sheer challenge of it. What made people become suicidal, or manic, or alcoholic? And how could he make them well again? For the last 10 years, Henry had been the medical director of the young adult wing of the psychiatry department. His patients were over 18, under 30. Some of them were severely depressed. Some were in the midst of delusions. Others wasted away in some sort of self-imposed hunger strike. It was one of these ones that he thought of today.