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Mr. Blount's tattoos speak of finer days; a battleship long rusted, a wife now dead.
Mr. Blount doesn't speak at all, but if I ask him he will squeeze my hand—the silent language shared by lovers and the dying.
I pat his shoulder with a deceptively firm hand, telling him everything will be all right.
He must wonder how many other times I was wrong.
I always yell at Mr. Hatch, as if more volume could pierce that fog behind his eyes.
It never does.
Today I make the ritual requests: Nod your head, tell me your name, look at
GREG SIMON. On Medicine Rounds. Ann Intern Med. 1982;96:686. doi: 10.7326/0003-4819-96-5-686
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Published: Ann Intern Med. 1982;96(5):686.
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Print ISSN: 0003-4819 | Online ISSN: 1539-3704
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