A Night In The E.R.

I cried. I silently wept as I heard the news. News that had nothing to do with me or my family. Thanks to this peculiar human trait called empathy, I cried when I overheard the doctor tell a family that their loved one would not survive the night. The doctor suggested that they take turns saying their good-byes. As I checked on my mom, I saw them file in to the exam room one-by-one and walk out in silence.

What it must be like to be that doctor. I would be a blubbering mess if I had to deliver news like that with any regularity. Do they suppress their empathy? Did they ever have it to begin with? There must be some defense mechanism that protects them fr0m the sadness they see everyday. Maybe it is balanced by good news. My sister is a pediatrician who handles emergency room cases. She said that, until our mother got sick, she didn't realize how cold she had been to worried parents. One of my aunts is a radiation oncologist. She cries when she talks about her patients who didn't make it and I am sure that's what makes her such a loving and caring doctor.

We were lucky to have mom healthy and energetic for turkey day to share it with our closest friends and family members. By Friday morning, however, her condition deteriorated. I called home to find her semi-lucid and slurring her speech. Perhaps she took too much morphine, but something didn't seem right. I went over there, got her dressed and headed to the E.R. By the time we arrived, she was hallucinating.

Labs were normal, x-ray was normal. CT scan of the brain showed the possibility that she had mini strokes. The doctor told us that, in her condition, any one of many things could set in. A big stroke, a seizure, heart failure, etc. He offered to keep her overnight for observation but said there would be little they can do if any of these things happen. My father, my sister and I agonized over the decision. Out of their earshot, I asked the doctor bluntly, "essentially, are we choosing between her dying here or dying at home"? "Yes", he responded.

I made the decision. The doctor discharged my mom from the hospital and sent us home with a smile of sadness, as if he could see through a crystal ball things he knew he should not say. It is hard to sleep, wondering if she will be with us in the morning, wanting to make sure everything is okay. I cry for my mom as I see her suffer. I cry for my father, wondering how he will handle the loss of his wife of over 30 years. I don't know if I even cry for my own loss. Thanks to this peculiar human trait called empathy, I cry enough for everyone else.