Do it for me. I’m on call, so I can’t.
But when I see an elderly man sob quietly at his wife’s side, saying “please wake up”, when the husband in the room next door slides to the ground and says “she’s my entire world doc, please save her,” I cannot help but shed tears.
These events on a day when my team told a family that their 30 year old son would never wake up again after a drug binge, another family that their grandmother had invasive brain cancer, and finally another family that their patriarch’s cancer is terminal and compassionate extubation is the most humane option of medical treatment. My young woman, fighting off an incredibly rare and mysterious disease, is loosing her hair from chemotherapy. Her boyfriend combs what is left slowly and carefully, massages her hands, sings to her.
It is the tender, vulnerable moments of love and humanity in medicine that destroy me. Please hold your loved ones right. Tell your friends they mean something to you. Pet your cat or dog.
This call blows and all I can do is secretly cry in my call room and type notes, place orders, keep going.
