She was supposed to start college this week. Instead, a patient I'll call by her first initial, "L," is sitting in my office, sobbing. She's not on my schedule, but she's started to wait for me on afternoons before my clinic.I'm the only one who can help her, she says. But nothing I've learned in medicine prepared me to help this teenager. I wish that I could go back to the time before I asked her how her face became bruised, and before I filed the Child Protective Services report. But that's not possible. So I sit on my red stool, wearing my white coat, feeling utterly powerless. I hold L's hands, wishing for rescue for both of us.All I want is to heal her so that I can leave the room and care for my other young patients, with their diaper rashes and ear infections that can be cured with a simple cream or prescription
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