I just work here

This weekend, I was humbled in the face of medicine. . . again. One of the most powerful, uncomfortable, gratifying, scary things I do is guide a patient and/or family through the dying experience. Certainly, I don't claim to be a good counselor in this regard. After acknowledging some ominous signs in a patient whose care I'd assumed on Friday afternoon, it seemed that the elderly gentleman, whom I was sure had lived his many years to the fullest, was going to die. I waited for his sister to arrive, met her for the first time, and began to share my assessment and prognosis. She was reasonable. That always helps. We had a good chat. I promised to keep him comfortable. She thanked me for my time. I went about my various other tasks. I checked on him a couple of times thereafter. He seemed comfortable, as I promised we'd keep him. I didn't hear anything about him from the nurses for the remainder of the evening.
Saturday morning, as I was making rounds in the hospital, I knocked on the door to his room and washed my hands, per my usual routine. I called him by name as I approached the bed, per my usual routine. I was greeted with, "hey doc!" from a elderly man sitting in the bed. My jaw dropped and I stepped out to check the room number and patient name, which is usually not a necessary part of the routine. After confirming his identity, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or freak out. After checking him over, I humbly phoned his sister to update her on his condition. "Well ma'am, this is just another humble reminder that someone much more powerful than me is in control. Clearly, I'm not in charge. I just work here."