My patient made me cry today. He’s one of my favorites; a patient under my care for the last two years and I’ve coaxed him into getting flu shots, sleep studies, new medications, while listening to his ailments and heartaches. Today he told me that I was the “best doctor he ever had” and praised me to my attending.

Then I told him that I was leaving in six moths and this was probably our last visit.

I’ll admit I lingered over the visit, making sure he was “tucked in,” the colloquialism used for making sure that all of the loose ends are tied up before passing a patient on to the covering physician. I cajoled him into a few more tests to work up some of the complaints that I hadn’t been able to figure out. I confirmed that I had documented all of his health maintenance and tried to convince him one more time that he needed a colonoscopy, which he, as always, brushed off.

And then, before I left for the last time, I held his hand and felt tears prickle. I’ve been so careful to protect my heart, to focus on all that I need to complete and do. The new city. The drudgery of packing and moving. I didn’t want to stop, to think about what I was leaving behind.

I wasn’t supposed to miss this. Not yet.