2 weeks Ago By Gabriela Veronica C. Tuazon
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rapplerAds.displayAd( "mobile-middle-1" );“Neighbors” is Rappler People section’s space for community and human interest stories told in a personal way.And I just sat there.
There was no other way I could explain what was going on. A 57-year-old man who came in was initially being managed as a case of acid reflux; his was actually a case of heart attack in the making. But there are events you can’t explain, and I’ve realized that, if you constantly try to control everything, you might as well just lose your mind.
“Are you at peace, though, ma’am?” I asked her. “I don’t know,” she replied. She was swimming in disbelief that it was the third time she had to make such decision — of whether to withdraw everything artificial and suspend the belief that her brother was dying, or to be aggressive after 25 minutes of resuscitation, which she could not manage to watch.
“Why does it have to be me?” she said in a small voice, tears rolling down her cheeks. I could feel my chest swell, but I mustered up the courage, stroked her back, and said, “I don’t know how I can help, but maybe you’re put in this position again because you’re the only one capable of deciding.” I bite my lip, unsure if I had said the right words.
Then she looked at me and took a deep breath. For the next three hours or so, she would visit me in the doctor’s quarters and constantly asked me if she did the right thing. All I could do was hear her out, constantly throw her back questions we both couldn’t answer.
After talking to her siblings and mother on the phone, she came back to me and told me that she had decided to take the palliative course — to wait and see if today was the last day her brother would live or fate would give them more time. No more ICU transfers, all BP-raising medications would be consumed, he would be admitted to a regular room so more relatives could visit. “Okay, ma’am, but there’s no guarantee when he’ll go.
But rest assured we’ll provide him the best comfort care as possible,” I told her. “How do you doctors take this? Death every day, how do you do it?” she asked. “Sadly, I don’t know either” was all I could muster.
You’d think that after your 16th death (yes, I keep score), you’re finally desensitized when a patient’s heart stops beating. You’re finally ready to give the spiel, “time of death,” etc. But you’re never really ready.
I used to stutter when I’d declare death, but, after some practice, I got used to it. window.rapplerAds.
displayAd( "middle-2" );window.rapplerAds.displayAd( "mobile-middle-2" );Still, the anxiety and pain — even about a patient I’ve just handled for a few days or hours — don’t make the burden any easier.
We doctors just do what we need to do, then move on to the next patient. “Thank you for being here with me throughout this whole period,” she told me. I flinched a little bit, “I hope I was able to help, somehow.
” We both smiled at each other and that was the last time I saw her. The heaviness of my anxiety and pain is uplifted even a little bit from those words of gratitude. An hour later, when I was already home, I got the notice that the 57-year-old man had died.
In the back of my head, I still pictured the family, especially his mother, crying with her other children surrounding the bed in the emergency room, accompanied by the question, “How do you do it? Why does it have to be me?” These are questions that I constantly ask myself, but when the question comes from a perfect stranger, it makes the idea of mortality so palpable, you’re thrown off guard. You’ve just been with a person for around four hours, and the emotions are raw. You’re finally reminded that the reason why they’re opening up to you is because they trust your judgment as a doctor (and for a moment, the impostor syndrome you carry is suspended), and you draw strength and confidence from these hard questions.
“Why does it have to be me?” After some introspection, I finally have a short answer to the question: Maybe it’s because I’m exactly where I’m meant to be — fleeting in and out of humanity in this reality of healthcare. Somehow, I am consoled that even though these feelings are raw and painful, there’s the assurance that I’m still human, and I’m not just a robot trying to survive in the hospital. – Rappler.
com Gabriela Consing Tuazon is a second year medical resident in a private institution..
