As I look back, I think I’ve seen one Doctor cry; a Surgeon. Thank the Surgery Gods, I felt more human in his presence; in an industry creating robots out of living, breathing, dying bodies. He was unaware, a thick green curtain separating our hearts, me witnessing his pain/sorrow. I guess the two go hand in scalpel — Pain. Sorrow.
They say in Medicine one must protect oneself; not just with masks, gloves, and gowns and things. There’s a different kind of armour, invisible to the naked and goggled eyes. Doesn’t cost a thing and is actually made, right here in America. It’s a shell. Like a turtle wears. We go there when we’re blue, when we’ve lost a patient, can’t save a patient, look in the eyes of our patient, with news we feel unfair to tell. And perhaps we’re pressed for time. In and out. Right? A timer on our tool belt says, the Practitioner has 15 minutes. And what about time? Especially, the time your patient(though I think they’re called clients now) thought he/she still had. The I love you’s. The changing of winter to spring and summer to fall. All things beautiful, funny and sad — Things time cannot tell.
Maybe we also go inside this shell, well, when we’re ashamed — We didn’t have the time and space to sit with that person. Whether colleague, friend, or patient. We go there, to have a bottle of beer or two. To numb out. Forget all things messy. After all, we wouldn’t want the public, a so-called superior, or a client to find, we’re sometimes messy.
On the contrary. Medicine. It’s messy. Messy as hell.
And while we’re on contraries; those shells, they do come at cost. I think they come at a cost of sharing our human-ness. The mess in the human. The something other than our pride and influence we boast to tell. It’s a deeper thing, inside that shell. Filled with other stories, we don’t dare to share. Less palatable. More Human.
Medicinal Conversations 