Ed stretched out his hand for me to hold.

He teared up. "I need to tell you I killed a man in the war." His blue eyes pleaded with me. "I shot him in the forehead." He continued in a warbly voice. "I burst around a corner. It was a school or a church or something. He had a machine gun pointed at me. I told him to put it down and he didn't."

Ed stared straight ahead, reliving the nightmare. "It was either him or me," he sobbed. "And so I shot him. He fell back and I rushed over to him, lifted him to my face to say, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry I shot you.' But he was gone so quick I couldn't even tell him I didn't want to do it."

Ed squeezed my hand, his face contorted in agony. "His mother was never going to see her boy again. Because of what I'd done." He paused and closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. "I ran to the bathroom and vomited. I vomited so many times."

"War is bad," I said, trying to think of something comforting to say.

Ed sat up straight and looked me in the eye. "It's worse than bad," he said. "It's vile." He began to sob again. "I sometimes think I should have just let him shoot me," he turned to me and again squeezed my hand. "But I had just married you!"

The words hung in the air, heavy with regret and sorrow. The lump in my throat tightened. I smiled weakly and patted Ed's hand. "No Ed," I said. "I'm your doctor not your wife. It's 2022. All of that happened 76 years ago."

I had met many WWII vets early in my training in the late 1990's, but over the years they passed on. Ed had asked me to sit down when I entered the nonagenarian's room last Tuesday. We never have enough time for everyone in medicine, but I've learned there are times where you have to throw the schedule out the window, pull up a chair, and listen. I immediately knew our visit was going to be one of those moments and realized this was probably the last WWII vet who would ever tell me a story.

Ed seemed nonplussed when I corrected his misperception of my role. He gripped my hand tighter and continued his tale.

"I went back after the war to find his mother. To tell her I was sorry I had killed her son. I found his house but they told me she was sick in the hospital getting tests and that I couldn't see her. So I never got to tell her..." Ed trailed off and looked out the window. 

Finally, the nurses called. I was needed elsewhere. "I'm sorry, Ed," I said. "I have to go see other patient's now." I stood and put my chair back in the corner.

"Doc," he said as I turned to leave.

"Yes, Ed?" I answered.

"Don't work too hard." I smiled at him and nodded. Then I wiped the tears from my cheek and carried on with my day.