Heart Less

Some days, working in healthcare feels like one big, convoluted mess. Beyond the misunderstandings, the power struggle, poor communication, and the bottom line, there's also a dichotomous way of thinking that such a position enforces. We're told to care, but for the sake of your own sanity, you shouldn't care too much.

On some level, I'm fine with that sort of arrangement. The proclivities that pushed me into what is essentially an altruistic field of work are the same ones that allow me to treat patients like people, sentient beings with free will. Natural introversion and a great love for comfortable silence and solitude make it easy to keep them at arm's length, maintaining a small but distinct distance. Occasionally, however, this DMZ is crossed.

Over the past few months, I've seen cancer patients at all stages of disease. I've seen sepsis, amputations, and delirium. As terrible as it may sound, I was fine with that. Well, perhaps "fine" isn't the right word. I was able to accept that this is what happens sometimes. That's life. Yet the moment that managed to penetrate through this manufactured jadedness was watching some family members trying to support a patient as he relearned to walk. Their enthusiasm and their affected positivity was striking, and I couldn't help but watch from underneath my eyelashes. There was something innately beautiful about that moment, some deep, lovely aspect of humanity displayed for everyone and no one to see. All the same, however, it  made me want to cry. The amount of genuine, selfless love that they showed makes Hollywood's attempted portrayals pale in comparison. I'm grateful to have been there, even as a bystander, and at the same time, I'm humbled and challenged to be able to care for others with such openness, to handle death and disease without needing to split my heart in half, the most vital parts kept safely tucked away. Who knew that a five minute encounter could have such a lasting impact? Not I, said the cat.