On Death And Dying

Yesterday, I had to stand in a room and watch a man approach the end of his life.

I watched his breaths become laboured and periodic, what we label Cheyne-Stokes breathing - a common sign that the brainstem was starting to shut down.
I watched the critical care nurse silently point this out to me as we stood in this room, wondering if his next breath would be his last.
I watched him finally decidedly whisper to me - "Yes, this man is dying."

I remember thinking in that moment as tears welled up in my eyes, "God, please do not let me have to watch as this man dies." 

I watched my boss later explain to the family that full resuscitation in the event of expected deterioration was no longer a plausible or beneficial option.
I watched this man's long-suffering wife shed a tear, hold his hand, kiss him on his forehead and assure him things would be OK.

And, worst of all, I watched this jaundiced man before me lay with his mouth open on the bed, struggling to breathe and too weak to move anymore.

I think he knew as well.

...

I struggle to put into words the heaviness that I feel now, and the fear of facing a lack of understanding if I sought to express myself in any way other than screaming from my blinded stage.

I am humbled to so dramatically learn once more, that life is fragile and time finite.

I feel defeated, a sense that the ideals of a young girl who wanted to "save the world" was laughably naive and far too innocent to survive the harsh realities of life.

I worry that one day I would have to stand in different shoes in such a room, and watch someone I love breathe their last to the pathetic chorus of "I'm sorry but there's nothing more we can do."

I wonder if I am able to do good for others with my job, or end up causing more harm in my inexperience, busy-ness or lack of knowledge.

I still fear that I am not strong enough to be a doctor.

And in the midst of it all, I too am grieving for the immense loss in that room that night.

...

Grief, to me, is like using a Sharpie marker on skin.
You can try to rub it out or wash it off, but it stubbornly refuses to go easily.
You can try to ignore it, but it stands out like a sore thumb and screams its irrational demands to be noticed.
It sticks close for a period of time until you realise that all you can really do, is acknowledge it, suffer through it, and let its sting slowly fade away.

And with time, all wounds will eventually heal.

...

People say it gets easier along the way.

I hope so, but.. I worry for a day where the rawness of watching another human being reach the end of their life no longer affects the deep parts of my spirit.

In fact, I am afraid to one day be amongst people who suffer a deafening pain and in that moment feel nothing more than the responsibility to remain professionally composed, because I have learnt through practice to feign the perfect amount of compassion.

Because just like them, I too, am only human.

...

"And the very act of living is a tide; at first it seems to make no difference at all, then one day you look down and see how much pain has eroded."

- Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper