Lean on me

Important note:  This post, as with all on this blog, are my observations and experiences only. They do not speak on behalf of Rotaplast, any member of this mission medical or otherwise, or others on site. This is my unofficial blog only. The name of the patient has been changed out of respect for those involved.

Grief is an awful thing. Everyone does it differently. I tend to go find my hole, cry alone, and summon strength to face what’s next. Others sit quietly in small groups. Others talk about the situation or anything to take their minds off of reality. A few keep busy – asking what they can do, serving water and Kleenex. Tonight’s pizza party offered me new insight into how medical professionals do what they do.

What was supposed to be a fun after-hours event in the hospitality room turned into a somber support group. I had already holed up in my hotel room and tucked into bed after eating some ibuprofen, a pain killer and a sleeping pill to try and rid my mind of the mini-movies playing over and over. Fiona, the anesthesiologist from "Ronny’s" surgical team, had other ideas for me. She knocked on my door and when I opened it she said “Everyone is upstairs.” I say I’m not into a group scene tonight. “The team needs each other right now. You’re part of us.” I stare blankly at her red-rimmed eyes. She thanks me for my words earlier as we sat in the OR; I saw her sitting, head in her hands, and went to her. I offered a hug and told her how impressed I was with her during the events earlier, still feeling lame and useless, but speaking and acting from my heart. From my desk, I had watched her:  determined, professional, and willing the child to live. She told me that she’d only lost one other patient in her career – an elderly woman. And while it shook her then, she admitted that a child was a quite different feeling. “There must be a better way to make a living,” she said her eyes welling up. I didn’t feel like I could offer anything useful to her but sat by her and told her how phenomenal a person I think she is. But standing at my hotel room door hours later, she’s telling me it helped her and she’s asking me to be part of the team right now. To step-up, not only for myself, but for the others. She is right of course.

I quickly dress and head up to the hospitality room. Everyone is there and fresh hot pizzas have just arrived. I realize I hadn’t eaten all day given the events so manage to push in a couple of slices of pizza in…followed by a huge glass of wine. And another. The damn medications still unable to take hold of my busy mind.

Medical professionals are special. They know the risks of their work. Every patient deserves and gets their full attention – I’ll remember this the next time I impatiently sit in a waiting room for my turn. And when they lose a patient, they band together. There doesn’t have to be a lot of words. They seem to know what each other is thinking and feeling. And, they pass out hugs and reassuring looks amongst each other freely. Over pizza and drinks I watched them unwind from the day’s events and recommit themselves to pushing on with their important work. It’s not that the emotions aren’t there. They absolutely are. It’s just that these servants have learned that they can’t serve again and again as their jobs demand if they spend all of their strength and emotions on the things they cannot control or change. They came with a mission in mind and will see it through. So will I.