NaBloPoMo - Day 13 - Please Don't Touch the Doctor

I am not a hugger...

Never really have been.

I'll allow certain people to hug me

but it took a long time to really get used to being

touched by other people.

Even now I have a very small select

group of people whom I'll tolerate hugging me,

Very small...

At the hospital, I don't shake hands, 

mostly because I immediately have to wash my hands

because I can't get the sensation of having been touched

removed from my hands fast enough...

Hugs, yeah, nope...

Today a patient's family hugged me...

A family that I gave bad news to...

A family that understands that their loved one may not survive

despite all our best efforts...

And they hugged me...

I explained what needed to happen,

what was going to happen,

asked what else I could do for them

and they thanked me for everything I had already done...

And then they hugged me...

I stood for a moment stunned as they put their arms around me...

As I patted their back, the hug grew tighter and I felt the familiar

heaves as their tears started...

And, even I have to admit I got a little misty...

I guess it's the ultimate in trust...

this family trusted that I had done everything I could,

the rest they (and I) believed is in God's hands

because their loved one is in a serious condition,

and those few moments I gave them before I put a breathing tube

in their loved one I sincerely feel may be their last chance

to let the patient know how they feel...

And despite being uncomfortable,

at least I could feel good about that...

Losing Faith in Humanity...

So every once in a while I come across a patient that really affects me.  There's been this couple who over the course of the last year have been coming in periodically to the E.D.  Usually, one or the other of them is sick.  Really sick.  Respiratory type problems:  pneumonia, the flu, difficulty breathing.

They're usually dirty.  Unkempt is what I dictate.  Or poor hygiene.  But they always seem grateful for what we can do for them.  A meal, a ride, free medications.

The woman came in again the other night.  Shortness of breath.  Smelling of motor oil.  A friend was letting them stay in their garage since she's been sick.  Because you see, they're homeless.  Living under a bridge by the river.  As, I was leaving that night, driving past the spot where they've told me they live, I felt bad.  Felt like I should do something more.

You always maintain professional distance from your patients, but there's some patients that just affect you.  I started to wonder what I could do.  Not a hand out, but a job offer.  Maybe something simple like yard work, maybe.  The thought stays with me throughout the night.

The next day I hear the patient was discharged to home;  she'd come in feeling short of breath from all the meth she used.  Then I get angry.  Seriously?  You're homeless, you couldn't stay in the hospital the last time because you had to go back to your campground and "feed the dogs;"  you already spend your money on cigarettes and now you're also using meth.

Seriously?  Sometimes I wish I was back in surgery.  A piece of skin under the drape.  See the problem, remove/replace/fix the problem.  Because sometimes the things I hear about my patients just makes me wonder, seriously?