Disclaimer: As there are people out there who have twisted my words and posts for their own benefit, let it be known that my medical-based posts do not represent my profession, my department, my hospital, or the government. For the sake of respecting the doctor-patient confidentiality, I've omitted certain details. For the sake of transparency, I have not embellished my accounts. My intention is simple: to spread awareness and to promote appreciation toward loved ones. I also hope to nurture empathy among medical practitioners, as patients are not just diseases.
The following are not the words of a practicing doctor, but of an observer of human behavior.
It's too cold outside
For angels to fly
Angels to fly
To fly, fly
For angels
to fly to fly to fly
For angels
to die
- Ed Sheeran, "The A Team"
Among the rules of writing is to never start with the weather.
I have never been good with rules.
It's one of those lazy weekend mornings, where the sun is hidden behind a blanket of clouds, where heaven weeps and turns streets into streams, where droplets form rivulets on windowpanes, where couples stretch and snuggle tighter against each other. It's one of those weekend mornings perfect for sleeping in; or, in my case, perfect for musings.
As angels cry outside, I am reminded of the tears I have caused this week alone. I have asked three different families to bid goodbye to their loved ones, I have had to break the news that there was nothing else we could offer. I whispered the syahadah into a newly-deceased man's ear as his wife wept by the bedside.
An elderly man had thirteen children, but they were scattered all over the country, so he lived alone with his wife. I do not know if he led a full life, or if he was happy, but from the way his wife refused to leave his side, I did not have to guess much. He was brought to the hospital unconscious. He suffered from a massive hemorrhagic stroke, but due to his condition when he arrived, the size of the bleed, as well as his advanced age, we could not safely offer surgery as the risks far outweighed the benefits. The only thing I could do was to provide his wife with a Yaasin booklet, and to ask her if their children were already on their way to the hospital. The whole night I silently prayed that he would live long enough for at least one of his children to bid a final goodbye.
He exhaled his last breath early in the morning, surrounded by nurses taking care of his hygiene, and his wife sitting alone by the side, reading the Yaasin in halted whispers. Even before I whispered the syahadah, she was already weeping. She knew. She knew his soul had been greeted by an angel's gentle embrace.
A man made a living several states away. His youth promised him potential, a future of near-endless possibilities. He appeared as naive as anyone can get, but his illness raised red flags. He came fully alert and aware, and he was more than capable of making his own decisions. His siblings formed a protective shield and steadfastly refused surgical intervention despite extensive advice, and opted for non-surgical treatment instead.
He slowly responded to treatment over one week, but the morning the elderly man passed away, he developed a massive headache. My colleague and I rushed him down for an urgent imaging, but the lesion had not worsened from before. We talked to the family again, and this time, they warmed up to the possibility of surgery.
I don't know if the decision was made too late, or that perhaps it simply was not meant to be, because that evening he deteriorated, and he did so fast and hard. He developed seizures despite already on anti-epileptics, and he quickly became unresponsive and had to be supported by mechanical ventilation. There was nothing more we could do, however, as even the most primitive function of his brain had ceased.
That was not the worst of it.
How do you tell parents that their child is inflicted with a disease tied with a heavy stigma? When my colleague broke this grave news, the young man's mother broke down and kept on repeating that her son was a good boy, an innocent boy. His father retreated into himself and said nothing. His siblings were simply dumbstruck.
His whole family is now camped outside the ward, and come in whenever they can to offer him prayers, to read the Yaasin by his bed. His elder brothers even stayed up at the corridor in the middle of the night, reciting the Yaasin non-stop. Stigma or no, the young man is loved.
Such a waste. A youthful wrong decision has caused such widespread heartache. A youthful wrong decision has snuffed a life that hasn't even reached its prime. I do not know if angels will greet his soul with the same ease as they had the elderly man, but I do hope he knows that even at the end, he is loved.
Three months from now, June 16, marks my seventh completed year of working as a doctor. I have broken bad news more than I have delivered good ones, especially since I started working in neurosurgery. You'd think, with practice, it gets easier. Things are supposed to be that way, don't they?
It never gets easy to look at family members in the eye, to meet their expectations with a crushing blow that you have no choice but to deliver. I guess it's easier if I lock away my emotions and treat this as part of my job description, but I'm not good at shutting down my emotions just as I'm not good at following rules to the letter.
It's still raining, and even if it's too cold outside for angels to fly, I hope my heart is not too tainted for them to hear my prayer.
Help me heal others, help me be my best. If that is not enough, give me strength enough to ease their passing, and let them be surrounded by loved ones.
Amin.
