we walked side by side through the chirping alarms
and bright flourescent lights. toward a task that neither one of us was looking forward to. a
task that often comes with our territory, but never gets any easier.
seeing the look on a mother’s face when you tell her that her son is
going to die should never ever be something that comes easy. (there is a
special place in hell reserved for those who find it so). and this time was no
different.
my friend and i, co-fellows in our
hematology/oncology program, went together. because we had both been
called to help. but mostly because, deep down, we sensed we’d need one
another. that this time would, somehow,
be more difficult than all the rest. we traveled the halls of the intensive care
unit to talk with the family of a man who will likely die in the next 48 hours
at the hands of a fatal medication error. a chemotherapy-related
medication error that occurred at another hospital but was so severe and rare
that he was transferred to be under our specialized care. an
error so tragic in its ability to have been prevented that it burns in my
throat and takes my breath away. an exquisitly painful reminder of how
much responsibility we hold in our hands.
we are each well versed in having the
difficult conversations that our professions often calls upon us to have. we've had more than either one of us care to count. these
conversations are never easy, but i have found that they are always meaningful.
sometimes we witness the beauty of a family brought together or a last wish
fulfilled.
i admit that today, in this moment, i am struggling deeply with the meaning in why this happened. i have faith that it is buried
deep in there somewhere and we are all left to try and find it.
i will never forget the look in his mother's steel
blue eyes when we told her the truth. the truth that no one had wanted to
say before. there was talk of damage reversal and options and palliation
of pain (all very good things) but not the hard, undeniable horrific truth.
we went together, my friend and me. both
mothers. both mothers to sons, in fact.
we bore witness to the piercing agony as the steel blue turned grey. the matriarch, clearly a strong determined woman, seemed to vanish with the
news. she motioned for a drink of water and frantically reached for her
purse....fumbling for a pill bottle of anxiety mediation. her children,
understanding the harsh truth more readily than she, quickly surrounded her, physically supporting
her as a single lonely tear crept slowly down her face. that moment will stay with us forever.
i will never know this man but based on the stories
they told of him, i know he was a man of character. a man with a
beautiful spirit. they say he was a man who liked to work on cars in
between chemo cycles, something that came as no surprise as i held his tanned calloused hand in mine. he was stubborn and determined not to let his cancer
beat him down. he was so proud, they say, as he came to clinic to get
what would have been his next to last treatment. his last words were
"i don't want anyone to get in trouble" as he talked about the
medical staff he knew had made a grave mistake.
i don’t know why this happened but i am glad we met
this man. only if to say goodbye. i am touched by his grace and for now, that is all the meaning i can muster.
