My eyes
blurred and my concentration began to slowly fall away from the words of the
neurosurgeon. The pain in the room was too great, rendering the area too sacred
for flippant discussions about interventions that would not be performed. I
couldn’t leave the room for care of my very sick patient, but I allowed for a
lull in the bustle of a CCU so that the real victims of a horrific accident
could grieve for a brief moment at the bedside. I do not try to comfort those
people, for my watery condolences would end the fate of drizzle in the mouth of
a seething volcano. Instead, I simply tell them “I’m sorry. I know this is a
terrible thing to be going through.” I ask each of their names, and remember
them, and they are now my patients in a different way, because at the beginning I will be the
one to give gentle reminders to eat, or let them know it is okay to touch and
talk to their loved ones, or encourage them when they decide to leave for a
while to perform other essential family duties. I do that, and they leave knowing their loved one is still with caregiver and companion.
Such is
my role.
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