September 21, 2022. It was a beautiful autumn day in Sacramento; the sun cast a warm blanket over the valley and the trees were ruggedly decorated with reddish-orange leaves. I noticed the beautiful purple flowers standing tall and confidently, bathing in the sun’s light, as I walked into the hospital for yet another day on my pediatrics rotation.
I was three months into my third year of medical school, still naive about the tragedies in medicine but eager to learn and experience it all. My preceptor spent the morning patiently teaching me how to examine newborns. My favorite part was testing their grasping reflex; I loved how their tiny fingers just wrapped around my finger and held on so tightly.
As we rounded on patients that day, a social worker interrupted to tell us about a stillborn baby with some birth defects that was just delivered. We were led into a small closet room where I laid eyes on a blue, cold, lifeless newborn wearing a cute beanie. A social worker was in the room taking the baby’s photos and imprints of its hands and feet for the family to cherish forever. As we examined the baby, we discovered that the baby had sirenomelia (mermaid syndrome) and a myelomeningocele. The baby’s legs were fused from the hips down, almost looking like a mermaid’s tail. I held my breath as I gently palpated the fused bones in his legs. I held the baby in my arms as my preceptor tried to teach me about his deformities. But I couldn’t get my mind off the baby’s dusky blue skin. I reached out to hold the baby’s hand but my heart dropped when he didn’t immediately grasp my finger. My body felt frozen as I gazed down at this innocent baby whose life was snatched from him way too early.
Usually after a full day at the hospital, I would drive home and immediately sit to do my practice questions and studying. But that day, I just couldn’t. Instead of going home, I sat in the hospital chapel for over an hour. I took comfort in the silence that flooded the chapel. My mind retreated inwards. I questioned why that baby wasn’t given a chance to explore the world or experience the love of his parents. That baby was pure; he hadn’t done anything wrong to deserve this. Why was I given the opportunity to live but he wasn’t?
I wasn’t able to understand how much my soul ached for this baby’s family even though I hadn’t even met them. As I walked to my car, I didn’t notice the beautiful weather or the purple flowers outside the hospital. My mind was far too occupied with all the existential questions I had running through my mind. On my drive home, I noticed the car in front of me was driving so rashly; he cut through five lanes in a matter of seconds! Immediately I was filled with anger; how could someone, who was given the gift of life, put his own and other people’s lives in danger by driving so recklessly? He was so unbothered about possibly getting into a wreck, while the baby in the hospital hadn’t even had the opportunity to experience the world outside of the womb.
I questioned why that baby wasn’t given a chance to explore the world or experience the love of his parents.
Filled with frustration and confusion, I called my mom as soon as I got home with the hope that talking to her would provide some comfort. Hearing her voice, I just broke down. I cried for hours, unable to understand why life was so unfair.
Every single day, physicians are faced with the reality of death. Their experiences with grief and loss are masked by a veil of professionalism that they’re expected to maintain at all times. Unfortunately, this just contributes to the epidemic of physician depression, anxiety, burnout, and suicide. The lack of conversation and training regarding managing the clinician’s emotions is unfortunate. As a bright-eyed medical student, no amount of lectures, studying, or training could have prepared me for the heaviness of death that I would witness during my rotations.
Coping with the grief of a patient’s death is a process that all health care professionals must learn to navigate in their own way, and my heart goes out to all health care workers that deal with death so frequently. Some may lean on a support system, some may practice self-care, and some may turn to spiritual practices. Regardless, I learned that it is important to allow yourself to grieve. Processing and accepting these raw emotions requires time. Experiencing grief over a patient’s death is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign of empathy and humanity.
