Trauma Room Two

by Philip Allen Green

Sometimes being a doctor is the loneliest feeling in the world.

If you know where to look, you can find peace everywhere, even here.

Every time the medic radio blares out about a car accident or a trauma, I find myself afraid. One question keeps coming up in my head: “Could I do it?” That is, could I code my own kid?

“Please, God. Do not let any of them be one of mine.” Is that a bad thing to pray for? Is it bad to pray that someone else’s child is dead in a smashed-up car in a field alone in the dark, instead of my own? What does God think of that prayer? I don’t know, but I pray it anyway. “Please, God, let it be someone else’s child.”

When people imagine what it is like in an ER, they like to think of high fives, fist pumps, and amazing saves. They think that is what makes doctors, nurses, and emergency personnel such a close-knit group. But it is not. It is moments like this. It is standing around an empty gurney together while we think about our own sons and daughters.

If a case is too traumatic, too upsetting, and I close off all emotions, it can be weeks before the feeling part that makes me who I am returns.

It turns out sometimes all a person needs is a chance to prove himself.

Sometimes I want to say to people, “I am not the reason you are sick.” But I know it is easier for them if they just yell at me for a few moments. At least they can yell at someone.

“I get sick, too,” I want to say back. “I get tired, too,” I want to argue. But I never do.

This is why I became a doctor. Not because I can stitch a wound, manage a trauma, or splint an arm. No, I became a doctor to be with people when it matters the most. I did it so that I can stand at the edge of the cliff with another human being and we can gaze out together into the night beyond. I did it because I, too, am afraid. I did it because I want to find some way to lessen the fear—not just for me but for all of us.

It is sad and wonderful and terrible and beautiful to hold the hand of a dying person.

“How strange that this is what I do for a living.”

First, it is OK to be afraid. That is normal. Second, introduce yourself, use your first name. Third, hold the person’s hand as he or she departs this life. That will be enough.

I have to remember. I need to remember. Is it not the duty of the living to remember those who are no longer with us?

I know she is dead. But sometimes family members need to see me try to save their loved ones. I am OK with that. It is part of the job. I will try for him, even though I know it will make no difference for her.

Maybe I will be OK, too, I realize. Maybe I don’t need to remember the faces of the dead. Maybe I need to remember the faces of the living. After all, they are the ones who are still here.

Some days I am ashamed of what I have to do to make a living.

How many times have promises been made by people who have no way of knowing what it is they promise? Oaths are sworn based on the abstract idea that love and discipline can win out over age and disease. Sometimes love and discipline do. But more often than not, the promises end up being ropes, the same ropes that guilt uses to lasso families into bad choices and decades of pain. Dementia is the worst of all—a disease that seems to feed on promises and guilt. When you find dementia, you find a family haunted by the impossible choices before them.

Sometimes I am not sure what to say to people, so I say nothing at all.

There are certain things I cannot write about. There are certain things which I will not write about. They are too terrible to share. It is my job sometimes to just keep them to myself. So be it. The next several minutes of that day are holy, private, and terrible. And they shall remain that way forever. Only those of us there that day should be burdened with what we saw. We will carry it for you. We will carry it for everyone.