She would have seen the pain in my eyes if she wasn’t staring at the floor.
She would have heard my sigh if she wasn’t breathing heavily too.
She would have felt my sorrow for her if she could feel my touch.
Locked behind a mask, my mouth twitched.
Her daughter had been upset for a while. A breakup with her boyfriend had proven to be, in her fifteen years of life, the worst thing to ever happen. In the three weeks since, she had found a therapist, and driven her there, three times a week. She had taken her to her doctor twice for depression, and would lay out her antidepressant pills daily. She had checked in on her constantly, to be a friend, to be a sounding board, to be whatever her daughter needed so that she could just be happy again.
It wasn’t enough.
An hour before we met, her daughter had swallowed 500 ibuprofen tablets. And in the fifteen minutes she was in the ED she could no longer talk, nor even respond. We had just taken her to our trauma room so I could place her on a ventilator.
She failed. Those were her words. Those were her feelings. And she couldn’t stand herself. Our visitor policy allowed only one person in the room, and she was alone except for her guilt and shame. And me.
For three months we’ve stood six feet apart – protecting our patients from ourselves. In doing so, we’ve lost our touch. Our masks filter out the emotions in our words. Minuscule eye movements, so telling when near, vanish when afar. Our gloves and gowns shield our warmth from the people that need it the most.
Nothing I said would have helped her. I took three steps forward, and she looked up to see me extending my left arm. As my arm neared, I hesitated, but her eyes welcomed me. My hand touched her upper back. Warmth. I knew at that moment that I no longer had to say anything at all, but I did. “You did everything you could have. This is not your fault. It’s nobody’s. She’s going to be ok.”
I cannot wait until we feel human again.
“Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last and it always tells the truth.” – Margaret Atwood
Touch….that very word speaks volumes. To know the past theee months we’ve not been “allowed” to touch, hug, or have visible emotion seen because of the masks we must wear. It’s been exhausting psychologically to know that we make a huge difference but yet can’t show the physical portion because someone may become infected.
We stand together but it feels like miles apart at times. Thank you Sanjay for this post. You all are an awesome team to everyone you know and those who may have to stand alone in a loved ones last moments