Humane human
When I was an intern in the MICU, we had a tragic case of a 40 year old Cambodian woman who died from a pulmonary hemorrhage due to an underlying malignancy (I think, a lymphoma). She died just around 7 am, when the team was arriving, and preparing for that morning's rounds. We found the post call team wild-eyed and exhausted after trying to save her all night.
So, the team, including the big attending, the smaller fellow, 4 residents, 2 interns, 1 medical student, 1 pharmacist, 1 pharmacy intern, and a dietician is gathering around to start rounds. Suddenly the door swings open, and down the long MICU hallway, two men literally carry in, feet dragging on the linoleum floor, an older woman, and another man. The dead woman's family, her mother and husband. As they drag down the endless hallway, they wail. Absolute bone chilling cries of grief, pain, loss and despair. They wail in their native language, but it doesn't matter, because all of us understand the international language of pain. Plus, it's their culture. Outward grief.
Rounds can't go on like this because no one can think.
We have no choice but to watch this sad procession - and it so happened that the dead woman's room is all the way at the end of the hall. Other family members start to peek out of other patients' rooms, and stay there, because no one can look away.
They keep dragging the wailing man and woman like rag dolls down the narrow hallway to the end.
They make it to the room. The nurse has barely had time to clean up signs of the night-long fight for the woman's life... there is still crusted blood around her nose and breathing tube. The mother falls to her knees. The husband throws himself on the bed. The other two family members - they're actually teenage boys, the patient's sons, stand back, lowered gazes. The screams turn even more shrill. The nurse judiciously shuts the door and curtain, and the sounds become muffled, but by no means disappear.
Our team is speechless. I'm nauseous. This is month 3 of being a doctor. This is hour 1 of a 30 hour call. No one says anything.
"Do you ever become inured to this?" I finally ask the attending.
He says, "No. And if you do, it's really time to call it quits."
So, the team, including the big attending, the smaller fellow, 4 residents, 2 interns, 1 medical student, 1 pharmacist, 1 pharmacy intern, and a dietician is gathering around to start rounds. Suddenly the door swings open, and down the long MICU hallway, two men literally carry in, feet dragging on the linoleum floor, an older woman, and another man. The dead woman's family, her mother and husband. As they drag down the endless hallway, they wail. Absolute bone chilling cries of grief, pain, loss and despair. They wail in their native language, but it doesn't matter, because all of us understand the international language of pain. Plus, it's their culture. Outward grief.
Rounds can't go on like this because no one can think.
We have no choice but to watch this sad procession - and it so happened that the dead woman's room is all the way at the end of the hall. Other family members start to peek out of other patients' rooms, and stay there, because no one can look away.
They keep dragging the wailing man and woman like rag dolls down the narrow hallway to the end.
They make it to the room. The nurse has barely had time to clean up signs of the night-long fight for the woman's life... there is still crusted blood around her nose and breathing tube. The mother falls to her knees. The husband throws himself on the bed. The other two family members - they're actually teenage boys, the patient's sons, stand back, lowered gazes. The screams turn even more shrill. The nurse judiciously shuts the door and curtain, and the sounds become muffled, but by no means disappear.
Our team is speechless. I'm nauseous. This is month 3 of being a doctor. This is hour 1 of a 30 hour call. No one says anything.
"Do you ever become inured to this?" I finally ask the attending.
He says, "No. And if you do, it's really time to call it quits."
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