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There’s No Crying in Medicine
Jewell P. Carr
I am a crier. I am the person who cries during movies, even ones I’ve seen before. I still cry when I leave home, after spending time with my family, almost as much as when I left home to go to college. Last year, I cried at my niece’s first dance recital when they did their number called “Baby Ballerinas.” I want to cry right now just remembering it. I cry at weddings. I cry at funerals. I cry when I’m happy, sad, scared or angry. I am a crier. I had one of the most horrifying experiences of my life just before this internal medicine rotation started, and of course I cried. I drove past a bad wreck on I-40 West between the Hanes Mall Boulevard and Stratford Road exits. It had only just happened; cops and fire trucks were there, but no ambulances yet. There were all these bright lights, and I turned my head and looked just in time to get a glimpse of what I know was a person. Broken legs twisted at their side, covered by what appeared to be a beach towel. There was a feeble attempt at a barricade. And yep, you guessed it, I cried. I was hysterical. I’m surprised I made it home without causing another wreck. I called my mother, and she reminded me that I was going to be a doctor and that death was going to be a part of my life from here on out, and the thought of this only made me more hysterical in the state I was in. I’m trying not to cry thinking about the whole thing now. So you get the point.
It was a Monday morning, and Mr. Clark (fictional name of course) in CCU room 21 went into V-fib just as we began rounds. He was dying right before my eyes. Chest compressions, Zoll defibrillator activated, 2 large-bore IV’s inserted, crash cart in place and me watching, waiting to see if I was going to get called to the plate to do something to help. After about 20 minutes of a full code and no response, it was called: “Time of death, 7:53 a.m.” I watched someone die and there was nothing. His lips were blue, his skin was pale, and he wasn’t moving…still nothing. We went through the rest of rounds and I presented my patients. As his family passed through, they were clearly inconsolable. I felt bad for them on one hand but on the other hand, Mr. Clark had not “been with us” for long. I think that in part because of that, they were spared a lot of pain but that’s a whole different conversation. I was seeing their pain but I don’t think I was feeling it. I walked by his room a few times before the funeral home came to get him…nothing. I had prepared myself for what I would feel when I saw a patient die for the first time…but, it didn’t happen. I DID NOT CRY. I, the crier, did not cry, not even when I got home. I felt strange for days after that. When I told my mother about it, she was shocked and I think even a little concerned, that I wasn’t feeling emotional about what I had seen. Where was I? Why wasn’t I acting like myself in the face of tragedy and in the presence of sadness? Was it being inside the walls of the hospital wearing my white coat? Was it the fear of what my peers or superiors would think of me? What was it that made me behave totally out of character? What separated everything I have ever known or felt about death from me at that moment? What made Mr. Clark’s dead body different from the one on I-40? I know I’m still a crier because I cried watching a movie just this weekend. During all those BAP sessions when we talked about crying in medicine and all those other touchy-feely things, I said to myself, “I’ll never lose myself. I’ll always be me no matter what.” Where was I when Mr. Clark died? |