Catharsis?

It has been too long since I put pen to paper – so long that even that statement is outmoded!

 Today, I want to share with you a thoughtful sadness.

About two years ago I relocated to a quiet northern suburbs area, where I now have a small practice.  I’ve slowly got to know many of the folk, their children, parents and life stories.  Some with chronic conditions need more regular medical attention than others, often with the help of specialists and other professionals. As a doctor-patient relationship is forged and developed, I am constantly reminded of what a privilege it is to be allowed to walk this intimate (and often difficult)  path with another human being. Dealing with pain, anxiety, treatment side-effects, incurable conditions, heartache, terminal illness, or even just the effects of ageing – these are intimate things, not  easily shared with just anybody.  This trust is humbling, and is something to be respected and treasured.

Human suffering of every kind or degree is all around us – just scratch the surface and you will find some kind of pain, physical or emotional, in almost every individual. Sometimes the hardest part of all is knowing that for some people, there is nothing you can do to help, except to be there for them, and share their burden.

And this brings me to the sadness.  This week, two of my aged patients died, and I found myself as moved as if they had been close family, even though I had known them for only a short time. One dignified gentleman in his seventies had for years bravely fought his way through a difficult heart bypass operation, kidney failure, prolonged immobility, diffuse arthritis, and just recently needed to have a pacemaker inserted. His wife, children and grandchildren are loving people, all of whom constantly rallied around him, full of help and encouragement. His sudden death has totally devastated this family.  The other patient was a delightful lady in her eighties who spoke only a few words of English, but had a twinkle in her eye and a smile that only a grandmother seems to have. She had survived breast cancer and a heart bypass operation, and was lovingly cared for by her family. This lady developed a stroke after a fall at her home, and died a few days later.

Neither of these two people was a close relative or personal friend. My interaction with each was infrequent, and only as their family doctor. And yet their death left me with a sense of personal loss. As professionals, we must remain objective at all times, but this is often difficult when dealing with another human being who has come to you for help at their most vulnerable moment. Many doctors are completely objective at all times: they are often exceptionally good in their field, but equally often disliked for a lack of “bedside manners” which seems to be the price demanded for this objectivity.  Finding the right balance between cold objectivity and warm humanness seems to be the answer. This is easy to do with a difficult, uncouth patient (there are many), but can be very difficult with a patient who for some reason touches your heart.

Perhaps this is an inner battle we doctors must contend with, and might explain why psychologists often have their own psychologist : they surely must need to unburden themselves of the huge load they carry from dealing with their patients’ problems.

Sometimes, the proven technique of writing something down can help. Yet I know that this catharsis is not erasure, and each patient lost along the way will remain with me forever. And on reflection, I think it is right.  I do not want to be untouched by another’s life: that would deny me one of the most enriching experiences a person can have.

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