Skip to main content

Metaphors and Medicine (Year IV): Chapter 2


It is early, as it usually is when I walk in to listen to the little hearts and lungs, measure the harmonies of their breathing, and watch the redness return to the tips of their fingers when I let go. Sometimes parents stir, and you get to be the first face they see in the morning before they search for that of their child’s.


Did their lungs sound okay? Are they breathing okay? Is it going to be an okay day today?


But the experience becomes different when that early morning visit is to deliver news of the bubble of uncertainty they are currently residing in. To watch a parent’s face fall apart as they are told the big “C” word as attendings try to make promises to find answers, to provide them with some answers that will be their solace in comparison to this uncertainty. They probably will not remember this conversation as much as they may remember that single sentence.


There is a consistent pattern when they hear it. I can see their mind working to process, at an astronomical rate, and they try to maintain their composure until their eyes leave yours and rest on their child inches away from us, and their face crumbles. 

I thought that would be the hardest moment.

However, I quickly learned that there is more that happens that makes this difficult. It is when they spend days in the unit with you getting to know them after they have that preliminary news that you gather their story. You learn about the sports they love, the games they played with their siblings, the food they wished they could eat but couldn’t because of all the diagnostic procedures. You learn their favorite colors, and watch as their hospital room becomes more and more their own each day. A new poster, a new toy, or the addition of a piece of home. It is when the test results come back and you learn about the next steps or the limited time that you break with the parents.

Because suddenly they are not a new diagnosis.

They are the child that loves superman or the child that always sleeps with mom next to her or the child that wants to get back to football.

It is then that it becomes much harder to let their fingers go every morning.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I wanted to belong here But something felt so wrong here -Breakaway No, I'm not one of those people who post song lyrics to explain every moments of their lives, but this is my first post, and I'm listening to Kelly Clarkson's Breakaway as I try to put my words down on here. I just felt like those two lines really relate to what I am about to talk about. Me. Since you and I are both new here, I thought I'd introduce myself, give you a reason to keep reading my blog, and give you a reason to believe that I really hope you find a friend in me. Here's my story: I am a writer. I love writing. I believe words run through my veins with my blood, dialogue is constantly on play in my head, and I could speak in metaphors all day if I wanted to. Really, try me. ;) Point is, I am a very figurative yet literal person. And when my life was forced to change, I used writing to help me get through it. After my sophomore in high school, I moved away from the Middle East (whe...
2 comments
Read more

Metaphors and Medicine (Year I): Chapter 2

There's a story behind everything in medicine. In the first few weeks of school, I was walking to the children's hospital connected to my school with a friend as we adventured to the cafeteria in search of additional doses of caffeine to fuel our long biochemistry study session. As we walked, I complained about how challenging this test was going to be, how hard studying was, how challenging this adjustment has been, etc, etc, etc. Meanwhile, we got onto the elevator and joined what seemed like a child and his mother and grandmother. "Where to?" she asked. "Lower level, please, thanks," I said. She nodded and clicked the LL button. She had her hands tenderly around the little boy's shoulders. I resumed speaking to my friend about how worth it I hope it'll be later. The family remained quiet and the elevator stopped, opening its doors to the level that was their stop. As they were leaving, I looked up at the mother, her eyes appeared red and ...
Post a Comment
Read more

What does it really mean to be American?

Hmm, got you thinking there, didn't I? Just yesterday, I had a discussion with a few friends about this question. We had to think about it for a few minutes to. What does it really mean to be American? Do you have to be born here to be American? Do you have to have an American passport? Are you still American if you've lived in America your whole life but you aren't a citizen? What if you're like me, lived in two different countries during your lifetime and have a different nationality? Does the fact that I'm an American citizen and a Palestinian citizen make me Palestinian or American? Here's what I said: I think that as long as you can refer to America as your home, no matter who you are or where your family is from, you're still an American.  And this doesn't just concern America. If a person is American but has lived in Germany or France during their life, and they can somehow refer to that place as home, then that makes them German or Fren...
Post a Comment
Read more