I've decided to use this space to add stories from my medical career that build off of my experiences in Bogota...now, 3 years later, here is a new entry:
Listening and Tears
Observing. Listening.
Reacting. Observing. Listening.
Reacting. Listening. Listening. That was
the beat of my day. I’ll start with the last part, since my emotional reaction
from the whole day decided to come out then and motivated me to write again. To
write something that wouldn’t be an email, or a patient note.
After frantically flipping through one of my medicine
textbooks, chastising myself for not understanding medication dosages and
dilutions well enough, I decided to shut my books and take the subway down to
Wall St. It’s funny because every time I go down there, it is for something
that is somewhat always anti-corporation. Last time it was flu shots in Zucotti
Park. This time it was “Yoga for change-makers.” I arrived and was instantly
warmed by the smiles that met me at the door. We introduced ourselves, sharing
bits and pieces about our professions and the way we believe we make change.
After everyone spoke, it was as if a nest had been woven between us, catching
us all-in our fatigue, in our failures, in our frustrations and fears. Then we
closed our eyes, and followed the soothing voice of our yoga teacher, allowing
her words to rub our lower backs and to let us breathe out the day.
Today was a particularly intense day for me. Another one of
those days in third year, where you say, holy shit: What did I just hear? What
did I just see? And what did I do when this happened? I’m guessing Palliative
care must be like this every day. To see so much sadness, enmeshment between family
members, existential crises, pain. In one exercise in the yoga class, we
practiced the art of listening. We broke up into dyads and listened to each
other for 5 minutes, without responding or interrupting the other person. The
exercise made me feel like I had never truly listened to anyone before. We were
supposed to speak about a strength we have, and how we intend to keep that
strength growing. I decided to give an example from my day. It happened when I
went into a patient’s* room, to speak with her about her pain management. She
had just been readmitted to the hospital after finding out that her cancer was
no longer in remission. She told us that all she wanted was to go back to her
daily life, her job, her running. She said that she wanted her pain to be
controlled, but couldn’t accept the fact that it would make her drowsy and
unable to communicate with her husband with a clear head. While she told us
about her personal goals of treatment, I felt my throat swell, my nose grow
hot, and my eyes begin to moisten. At first, I was angry with myself, upset
that I had let my own emotions into the patient’s personal space, and tried my
best not to let the patient see me. As I told this story to my listening
partner in class, I began cry again. It’s hard to explain why we cry some times,
but in that moment, I returned to myself in the white coat, by the bedside. I
returned to my moist eyes and thanked them.
I acknowledged my expression of sadness as my strength. This experience
brought up an important question for me: Why are we ashamed of letting others see
our tears?
*identifying characteristics have been changed
