Recently, I had the opportunity to speak at Marian University School of Medicine, engaging in one of those familiar “experienced physician to future physician” career talks. I shared with the students how remarkably unprepared I felt when I first entered medical school in the 1980s. It felt like one moment I was carefree at a college football tailgate, and the next, I was immersed in the heart of the AIDS epidemic. It was during that period that the true weight of being a doctor began to sink in.
However, for the past week, the expressions on those students’ faces lingered in my mind – a kind of blankness, a yearning for understanding. It wasn’t their fault; in a way, it was a blessing, as most of them will only encounter this disease in textbooks. It struck me that in another decade or two, there will be very few of us left who actively practiced medicine during the AIDS crisis. So, why bring this up now?
Because just moments before speaking to those students, I sat through a matinee showing of Bohemian Rhapsody, clutching my wife’s hand and silently weeping into my sweatshirt.
Without revealing too much of the film, Freddie Mercury visits a doctor’s office and walks past a frail young man, his body marked by Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions. The man looks up, offers a weary smile, and hums a few bars, a subtle nod to Freddie, acknowledging a shared, unspoken understanding of illness. Freddie responds in kind with a few musical notes.
Sitting there in the darkened theater, tears welling up, I discreetly wiped them away, transported back to my early days in medicine. The faces and names of patients from that era remain vivid in my memory. Many of them passed away in isolation, ostracized by families sometimes bound by rigid interpretations of “family values,” or simply unable to comprehend the unfolding tragedy affecting their sons and daughters. Yet, amidst this despair, I also recall the unwavering love of parents, siblings, and partners who held their loved ones close, tenderly wiping away blood-tinged sputum, offering ice chips with small plastic spoons, and whispering words of unconditional love: “I love you, my son, my child, my love, no matter what, I love you. I’ll always love you.”
I remember those sights and smells, the wrenching coughs, the death rattles, and then, almost as abruptly as a light switch, it all seemed to cease with the advent of effective treatments. Isn’t it astonishing? It practically stopped. So yes, I confess, Bohemian Rhapsody moved me to tears, perhaps the first time since Field of Dreams. This emotional response, this Doctor Rhapsody of feelings, was unexpected but profound.
Perhaps if I could have one wish for today’s generation of medical students, it would be this:
May you never cry in Bohemian Rhapsody.
Dr. Louis M. Profeta is an emergency physician practicing in Indianapolis. He is a national award-winning writer and a LinkedIn Top Voice and the author of the critically acclaimed book, The Patient in Room Nine Says He’s God. Feedback at [email protected] is welcomed. For other publications and for speaking dates or inquiries visit louisprofeta.com.
