I am awed by the strength of the human spirit as I watch my patients and their families deal with the challenges and the messiness that life has placed on their path.
Husbands, wives, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, friends, lovers. Of all shapes, sizes, colors and ages.
They support, they medicate, they turn, they change, they cry, they laugh, they pray, they hope, they trust, they doubt.
They feed, they clean, they drive, they listen, they lift, they call, they encourage, they laugh again and they cry some more.
The life of a human being who takes care of another human being is filled with challenges, as well as gifts, though the gifts usually hide in the shadows of the challenges. The only way to see the gifts is to change the angle of the light so the shadows shift, or shine more light so the shadows disappear.
My job is to help shine light from a different angle, or to shine light where it didn’t seem to exit before. I’m there to remove some of the darkness.
I’m humbled by the depth of love, loyalty and grace shown by my patients and their families, and amazed by the ability of people to endure, and carry on, even in the face of great fear and uncertainty.
My greatest satisfaction comes from reducing that fear and uncertainty, and the sense of isolation so many people feel when they are ill or caring for someone they love. I know this fear and uncertainty, because I’ve experienced it in my own life, when I helped care for my mother in her last weeks of life. It can be paralyzing. The isolation I didn’t experience, because I knew how valuable it was to be surrounded by a community.
In my medical practice I care for a diverse range of people. They are diverse with respect to their age, their condition, their culture, and their life experience.
One moment I’ll be consoling a teenage daughter whose mother is in a coma after a devastating brain hemorrhage, helping her make sense of what happened and what’s likely to come, and a few minutes later I’ll have my arms around a frail, sobbing, 90 year-old man whose wife is gently slipping away after 67 years of marriage.
But what all of my patients have in common is the need for someone to listen to them and try to understand what they’re experiencing. Only by doing this can we offer the compassionate and honest guidance and care they need.
Illness, injury, pain and struggle are part of the human experience. This will never change.
But fear, isolation and struggle do not need to be part of that experience. There is a way to reduce or eliminate them. This is my path, and it’s an honor and privilege to be on it.