tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post7974961818391953258..comments2024-02-18T13:53:30.168-08:00Comments on Surgeonsblog: On Death. One.Sid Schwabhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14182853083503404098noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-77862397223950442172007-12-17T06:08:00.000-08:002007-12-17T06:08:00.000-08:00Dana: thank you for your words, and for taking the...Dana: thank you for your words, and for taking the time to say what you did. I know how horrible it must have been. And still is.Sid Schwabhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14182853083503404098noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-83526170446155795312007-12-17T00:34:00.000-08:002007-12-17T00:34:00.000-08:00This is an old post, but I felt that I needed to r...This is an old post, but I felt that I needed to reply, to share my story. You've shaken loose memories that I've tried to get rid of.<BR/><BR/>In October of this year I received a call from my mother telling me that my (maternal) grandparents, two great-aunts, and my second cousin were involved in a car accident. She told me to go to work and that she would call me as soon as she heard more. I headed to work and called her back before I walked in the door, asking if there was any news. She sounded odd as she said, haltingly, "Well, we're not really sure, but...your grandfather...hit the windshield, and..." I told her that I would be right there. I raced into work (one of two hospitals where I live) and told my supervisor the situation and left for the other hospital across town. When I walked into the ER and didn't see my mother, I called her again, and saw her emerge from a side door to the ER and beckon me back. I walked in to find my mother, my aunt, a friend of the family, and my second cousin who was in the accident. We sat and talked of nothing important for five minutes before a doctor, a hospital chaplain, and a social worker came into the room. The doctor (who we never saw again after this) asked how we were related to those in the accident, and began to speak about my grandmother (who was medically fine). He mentioned how everything was going to be difficult on her, and how we needed to help her. He paused and said, "Well, you know 'Junior' died at the scene, and..." 'Junior' was my grandfather. I count myself as a person who isn't shaken easily, but you could have dropped a bomb on the building and I wouldn't have noticed. I didn't hear anything else the doctor said as I held on to my mother for fear that I would faint. No warning, no condolences, just "he's dead" and he walked away, leaving us to be stared at by the chaplain and social worker. It was the most horrible experience of my life and it brings tears to my eyes still. I'm so angry at that nameless doctor who couldn't be bothered to break this news to us gently, who didn't seem to care that he was the one telling us that we had just lost a central member of our small family. I'm so angry at him. So angry.<BR/><BR/>Even though doctors dread making that call or going into the waiting room to tell the family bad news, and even though we sometimes take our grief out on the doctor, later on, once the "smoke" has cleared, we'll remember how that news was delivered. We'll remember whether the doctor said "sorry" or whether he was aloof. We'll remember whether they seemed to genuinely care, or if they walked away immediately afterwards without a backwards glance. I wish I could look back on that moment and feel as if the doctor cared. It would give me so much comfort to know that he had cared enough to take one of our hands and just stand there and be human and share in another's loss. Instead, in my mind, he's taken on the likeness of a machine. I so wish that wasn't the case.<BR/><BR/>I'm glad that there are/were doctors like you, ones who can take a moment to spare to just be there and help comfort another in a time of loss. You're appreciated, whether we tell you or not. Thank you.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-64256503305372803632007-04-17T09:52:00.000-07:002007-04-17T09:52:00.000-07:00Drew: the painting is "By the Deathbed," by Edvard...Drew: the painting is "By the Deathbed," by Edvard Munch, 1895. And I appreciate your comment about the duality -- or whatever it is -- of being sensitive and of being aware of being sensitive. In saying it, I was being painfully honest, and didn't know if it was a concept unique to me, or not.Sid Schwabhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14182853083503404098noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-20475150820662952042007-04-17T08:33:00.000-07:002007-04-17T08:33:00.000-07:00Sid...a great series of posts. What is the painti...Sid...a great series of posts. What is the painting you used for this post?<BR/><BR/>I'm a palliative care doc and constantly am giving bad news. Your description towards the end of the post--about watching yourself give bad news--watching yourself being sensitive and compassionate at the same time as feeling real grief and compassion but also at the same time knowing you have to appropriately 'act,' 'present' that compassion to the family.... This is a common and weird situation I find myself in frequently, yet had never quite named that to myself until I read your description of it--thanks. <BR/><BR/>Drew from <A HREF="http://www.pallimed.org" REL="nofollow">Pallimed</A>.Drew Rosielle MDhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04345646798042773615noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-65705570686774256832007-04-13T21:06:00.000-07:002007-04-13T21:06:00.000-07:00Eloquently written and heart felt post.The line ab...Eloquently written and heart felt post.<BR/><BR/>The line about sorry being synonymous with sad is an interesting thought to ponder. I mean we all say sorry because that’s the word we've been trained to use in order to express sympathy. And its a conundrum because as much as we want to say empathize instead of sympathize we can't unless we've really been in the situation were apologizing for in the first place. <BR/><BR/>So with all that said how do you express your feelings towards a person whom you felt you've let down without (whether you did make a mistake or not it’s irrelevant) saying your sorry when that’s what we've been programmed to say since early childhood?Pseudo_Doctorhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00049692650443291796noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-6928504260091157022007-04-12T16:06:00.000-07:002007-04-12T16:06:00.000-07:00Dear Doc, I read this post many times over..Thank ...Dear Doc, I read this post many times over..Thank you. Sometimes, I think, we need straight talk. I know docs never want to take away hope, nor should they..there was a time when I felt I was a personal quest for my doctor. One day after ERCP he threw his hands up in the air. He put his arm around my shoulder, I pulled him to me and I said "This sucks"..he said " yes it does" and walked away. He left me there in my bed. I knew it was the last time I would see him. Did he give up on me? Did he give up on his own limtations? As I lay in recovery I looked over at my friend I said how I wanted my line out and I was done. Was I done because my doc was done? I don't know. It's a very honest and clear feeling you get when you know you need something drastic in order to save you. It's as though coms between docs and their patients happen on some other plane. I think that when a person is sick, you know. You may not want to admit it or hear it or even do anything about it, but you know. We also know that docs are human. I had one doc say to me, don't worry, I'm not touching you with 10 foot pole, but I want to learn from you (and yeah, I sent him my bill) I guess I am saying all of that to say, we understand. Take it easy on yourself, We KNOW you have a sucky job and we appriciate when you show that you are human and that you care and that we are not lost in the sea of patients with a record number, that you know us, take a piece of us with you, we can learn a lot from one another. Please son't be afraid and let hinder you.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-21788729264763874182007-04-12T08:41:00.000-07:002007-04-12T08:41:00.000-07:00That's a great post. Thank you.The reason I didn'...That's a great post. Thank you.<BR/><BR/>The reason I didn't go into gyn-oncology (the gyn-onc docs do the best surgery, and that's pretty cool) is the fact that so many of their patients die from their tumors. I didn't think that I could take care of dying patients all the time and still be able to be the doc I want to be.Midwife with a Knifehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04309579302399381913noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-29048819543056647842007-04-12T07:37:00.000-07:002007-04-12T07:37:00.000-07:00powerful entry. the scene you described was heart...powerful entry. the scene you described was heart-wrenching, and the dissociation familiar. Wonderful post, I'll look forward to the review of the book. I don't think fear of our own immortality is the problem either, if anything it's hubris and society's (and our own) abdication of physicians as end-of-life spiritualists, a trade off for respect as scientists. a bridge between the spiritual and the scientific is so needed, and i think writers, some physicians, and bloggers such as yourself are helping to rebuild it. <BR/><BR/>but all you need is a lawsuit and a hostile lawyer to shred your humanity again...Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-56010711885807887142007-04-12T06:51:00.000-07:002007-04-12T06:51:00.000-07:00Even 16 years later, my mom still raves about how ...Even 16 years later, my mom still raves about how much time my trauma surgeon/coma doctor spent not only with me, his high priority patient because my injury was so severe, but with my husband and with her. I still have all the hand-outs and copies he gave to them, explaining coma, brain injury, and the effects thereof. After I survived my husband said there was a fear that I would never come out of my coma, so there would have been time for them maybe to digest everything, with my doctor's help, if they did have to turn off my life-support.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-65631005390522126602007-04-12T05:57:00.000-07:002007-04-12T05:57:00.000-07:00Another excellent post, Dr Schwab. As a medstuden...Another excellent post, Dr Schwab. As a medstudent preparing to start my rotations in a few months, I find your insights and wisdom valuable beyond measure.<BR/>ThanksDerrickhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12308265696047804210noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-82978937338390669322007-04-11T20:38:00.000-07:002007-04-11T20:38:00.000-07:00Having spent many a month in hospital rooms, both ...Having spent many a month in hospital rooms, both in the bed and in the chairs next to them, I have often wondered what goes on in the minds of the medical professionals when they are confronted with death. <BR/><BR/>Your thoughts are most humand and quite eloquent. <BR/><BR/>Thank you for sharing them.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-18562828255101711292007-04-11T20:34:00.000-07:002007-04-11T20:34:00.000-07:00Great entry. It really captures the difficulty th...Great entry. It really captures the difficulty that a physician faces when having to inform families of terrible news.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30499448.post-26075157051298175472007-04-11T20:13:00.000-07:002007-04-11T20:13:00.000-07:00Thank youThank youAnonymousnoreply@blogger.com