I've been working in the hospital for three weeks now, and it's almost as if I never left. I watched a man die last week. I pronounced him dead, expressed my sympathies to his loved ones, returned to my office and pondered death over a cup of coffee. Then I proceeded to grumble over how inconvenient this man's death was for me. We all knew he was going to die, but his timing was the worst. He was supposed to go home that night, so he could die in his own bed, surrounded by his loved ones. I had spent the last few days arranging his discharge and making sure he would receive the proper care while at home. Yes, I mostly felt sorry for his family not being with him at the time of his death, but part of me was just annoyed at all the paperwork his death caused me.
It's almost frightening how quickly things have returned to "normal" for me, while working as a doctor at my local hospital. Normal, in this case, means creating an artificial emotional vacuum. I'm an empathic and compassionate person, very much so. But I cannot allow myself to feel too much, because life as a doctor is overwhelming. I need some distance to be able to function. I allow myself to enjoy positive things, and I allow myself to worry. But grief is not constructive and grief does not help my patients, so I keep it at bay. We collectively laugh at a morbidly obese man on a mobility scooter getting a heart attack while smoking outside of a burger joint. We would all do our utmost best to give this patient the best standard of care if he was admitted into our service. We would treat him to our best insights and try to comfort his family. Perform CPR, emergency surgery, whichever seems in the patients' best interests. But after all is said and done, behind closer doors, we laugh at the irony. Because being surrounded by sickness and death is overwhelming and macabre humor is a valid coping mechanism, however dehumanizing it can be.
I go out of my way to make sure patients feel that I care. Especially with elderly patients, I tend to make it a habit to drop by to see how they are doing, whether they understand what's going on, and how their partners and/or children are coping at home. I do this even after they transfer to a different unit. Maybe this is partially to redeem myself for my clinical and sometimes businesslike approach.
Mostly though, it's because when I see elderly people, I think of my grandparents. I think of how as they age, life becomes increasingly confusing for them, while at the same time their bodies slowly betray them. As they age, more and more of their friends die, and every day they have fewer people to relate to. I think of how many elderly people are isolated, lonely and depressed. And how little effort it takes to sit down with someone like this, and just talk to them for a bit. But the effort is not the problem, it's time.
I have the luxury of time for now, as an intern, but I have no illusions about the future. Once I get my medical license, I too will be swamped with work. I'll probably stop some sweet old man telling me about his life mid-sentence because I have 12 more patients to see to and a load of paperwork in my office. I'll probably miss important clues because I have no time to actually listen. I won't have time to stop by a patient's room just to have a quick chat. But for now, I do. And I'll try to enjoy that freedom.
For now, I'm done writing. I'm going to have a cup of coffee in the sunlight. And give my grandparents a call.
It's almost frightening how quickly things have returned to "normal" for me, while working as a doctor at my local hospital. Normal, in this case, means creating an artificial emotional vacuum. I'm an empathic and compassionate person, very much so. But I cannot allow myself to feel too much, because life as a doctor is overwhelming. I need some distance to be able to function. I allow myself to enjoy positive things, and I allow myself to worry. But grief is not constructive and grief does not help my patients, so I keep it at bay. We collectively laugh at a morbidly obese man on a mobility scooter getting a heart attack while smoking outside of a burger joint. We would all do our utmost best to give this patient the best standard of care if he was admitted into our service. We would treat him to our best insights and try to comfort his family. Perform CPR, emergency surgery, whichever seems in the patients' best interests. But after all is said and done, behind closer doors, we laugh at the irony. Because being surrounded by sickness and death is overwhelming and macabre humor is a valid coping mechanism, however dehumanizing it can be.
I go out of my way to make sure patients feel that I care. Especially with elderly patients, I tend to make it a habit to drop by to see how they are doing, whether they understand what's going on, and how their partners and/or children are coping at home. I do this even after they transfer to a different unit. Maybe this is partially to redeem myself for my clinical and sometimes businesslike approach.
Mostly though, it's because when I see elderly people, I think of my grandparents. I think of how as they age, life becomes increasingly confusing for them, while at the same time their bodies slowly betray them. As they age, more and more of their friends die, and every day they have fewer people to relate to. I think of how many elderly people are isolated, lonely and depressed. And how little effort it takes to sit down with someone like this, and just talk to them for a bit. But the effort is not the problem, it's time.
I have the luxury of time for now, as an intern, but I have no illusions about the future. Once I get my medical license, I too will be swamped with work. I'll probably stop some sweet old man telling me about his life mid-sentence because I have 12 more patients to see to and a load of paperwork in my office. I'll probably miss important clues because I have no time to actually listen. I won't have time to stop by a patient's room just to have a quick chat. But for now, I do. And I'll try to enjoy that freedom.
For now, I'm done writing. I'm going to have a cup of coffee in the sunlight. And give my grandparents a call.
