The package was in plain brown paper wrapping. The note enclosed read, “Thanks for everything you did for my father. It meant more than you can ever imagine.” I teared up, remembering the day I helped the father of a colleague die peacefully. When I opened the wrapping and saw the picture of two saplings planted side by side and a certificate saying that the family planted one in my honor next to the one in their father’s, the single tear turned to a river. Although I never thought that a patient’s death would be one of the best clinical experiences of my then young career, that day increased my love for practicing medicine significantly. Medicine wasn’t always a joy for me. In my medical residency, I existed in survival mode. I was a smartass, justifying anything that would get me through the days of sleep deprivation, overwhelming workloads, and soulcrushing sadness, even if it meant gallows humor and finding hilarity in tragedy. Early in my second year, I admitted a patient with an emphysema exacerbation. I was supposed to bring him with me to morning report and present his care to the chief of medicine the next day. But the patient’s

中文翻译：

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最好的礼物

包裹是用普通的棕色纸包装的。随附的便条写道：“感谢您为我父亲所做的一切。它的意义超出了你的想象。” 我泪流满面，想起那天我帮助一位同事的父亲平静地死去。当我打开包装，看到两棵并排种植的树苗的照片和一张证书，上面写着一家人在他们父亲的那棵旁边种植了一棵以纪念我的树苗，一滴眼泪变成了一条河。虽然我从没想过一个病人的死亡会成为我当时年轻职业生涯中最好的临床经历之一，但那一天大大增加了我对行医的热爱。医学对我来说并不总是一种乐趣。在我的住院医师期间，我以生存模式存在。我是个聪明人，为任何能让我度过睡眠不足、工作负担过重的日子辩护，和令人心碎的悲伤，即使这意味着绞刑架幽默和在悲剧中寻找欢笑。在我第二年年初，我收治了一名肺气肿恶化的患者。我应该带他去参加晨报，并在第二天将他的护理报告给内科主任。但患者的