100 Books Like A History of Present Illness

This thoughtful, well-written memoir of a medical doctor and historian reminded me of why we doctors practice medicine.

The story of her years at Laguna Honda, a long-term rehabilitation hospital for indigent patients, presented me with a kind of medical practice as different as possible from the intensive care I myself practiced: Slow Medicine, which promotes close observation and deep listening, just sitting together, allowing time to do at least some of the healing. Laguna Honda was a place of hospitality, community, and charity.

I take comfort in knowing that there is still a place for these values in today’s highly fragmented, technologized, and speeded-up “healthcare system.” I was particularly moved by Sweet’s reflectiveness and vibrant humanity as she allowed “God’s Hotel” to heal her even as it—and she—healed her patients. 

Michele Harper’s memoir is beautifully written, and her compassion and empathy shine through.

I was deeply moved by the way in which she carried that clear-eyed compassion forward from a trauma-ridden childhood through her medical training—where she, as a Black woman, experienced both racism and sexism—and into her life as an emergency room physician. I admired her forthrightness in calling out these injustices as she saw and experienced them while still maintaining her own humanity. I was inspired by her integrity and by the way she showed us, through her own life and the lives of her patients, that, as she says in the epilogue, “[b]rokenness can be a remarkable gift.” 

I LOVE the author’s voice in this memoir: she is eloquent, funny, and blisteringly honest about the dehumanization that has plagued medical training from its inception to this day.

I found it enlightening to see that a woman who is a concert pianist and turned down a full scholarship to Oxford to go to medical school suffered the same level of self-doubt as a medical student and resident that I did! I found her descriptions of sleep deprivation, the anxiety of being on call, and the pager as “the box of pain” highly relatable, even as I laughed out loud—or sometimes shed a tear.

I was inspired by her redemption through what she called “Doctor Rehab,” a Zen mindfulness retreat which gave her a whole new take on her calling.   

I loved this memoir because it is a story of incredible resilience.

I was deeply moved by the author’s ability to recount the stark facts of the heartbreaking intergenerational trauma she suffered while showing how her early life experiences of deprivation and abuse helped pave the way for her compassionate work with patients and populations. I nodded in recognition and sometimes laughed out loud at her account of her Catholic school education, which I could relate to my own experience.

I was awestruck by her grit and determination to rise above her difficult circumstances without any kind of model and little or no encouragement. I was inspired by her ability to find love and a fulfilling career after such a rocky start, and I’m sure her patients appreciate the depth of her compassion.  

Shem provides a satirical look at the often sadistic training of physicians.

This was a classic when I was coming up in my training. Trigger warning: While this book importantly highlights the hidden underbelly of medical training and culture, some of the stories are so egregious that they should be used in educational settings to discuss what NOT to do. But under every satire lies some truth and something to be learned.

This is a tense narrative about the Centers for Disease Control's investigation of a transmissible and virulent virus. I especially like the description of the politics faced by the investigating team, which consists of front-line medical detectives who have to deal with the senior oversight of home-based superiors.

This book is so full of tension and grit that I found it hard to stop reading. One of the things this book does so well is plop me right in the middle of a plague. The darkness persists as the main character (Nora, an orphan idiosyncratically trained in medical skills like surgery and caring for patients) pokes her way through the medical field, seldom receiving credit for her abilities and skills because she’s not supposed to practice medicine. No woman is in the 1840s.

The book points inward toward Nora’s travels through unfairness where she does the work and someone else always takes the credit. Only when she faces the worth that she’s created in herself does everything around her begin to shift dangerously. This book certainly kept my attention!

Part of the pleasure of reading historical fiction is the opportunity to learn something new, and this novel offered insight into medical practices of the Civil War period. Oliveira spares no details, no matter how gruesome. Yet the novel never feels like a lecture; the details are expertly woven into the story.

I loved following Mary Sutter’s journey from a well-respected Albany midwife to an aspiring Washington surgeon. I was inspired by her determination to learn all she could about the human body and how to treat it despite the many obstacles in her path.

Unlike Corinne Duyvis and Maya MacGregor, Elizabeth Moon is not autistic, but she based this protagonist, Lou Arrendale, on her son, who is on the spectrum. Not only is Lou an excellent and well-realized character, but this book also brilliantly tackles a subject that has long been a point of conversation in the autism community—a cure for autism.

In the book, a cure has been developed, and Lou must take it or risk losing his job. Lou, however, doesn’t want to give up being who he is. This is how most people in the autism community, like myself, view the concept of a cure. I appreciate how Speed of Dark argues for that position, celebrating autism as a unique difference in brain wiring rather than a defect. 

This book is personal to me. My ancestry is Hawaiian, and I have often stared at the old photographs of my Hawaiian great-grandparents, which were taken at the beginning of the 20th century, and wondered about their world.

This book begins also at the turn of the century, and as I read, I imagined that Rachel, the protagonist, might be walking down the street at the same time as Mary, my 6-foot-tall great-grandmother. Although I had often heard that there was a “leper colony”(we now refer to it as Hansen’s disease) on the island of Moloka’i, I knew almost nothing about it.

Through this book, reading the descriptions of the clothes and houses, the language and attitudes through history into the 1980s, I really felt like I was a passenger on a voyage through my grandparent’s world.