I watched a patient die before Christmas. He was surrounded by the full crash team, which nowadays is a fairly large group. As the attempt was abandoned, and another consultant ‘called it’, I withdrew into the background. There was nothing I could do to help. I walked away to prepare my departure for the week-long break (lucky me, most doctors don’t get that), and couldn’t help but think about him. His death. I wondered how it would affect me as I arrived home. The family were looking forward to seeing me, my return would mark the beginning of the ‘real’ holiday. I wanted to enter the house with a light spirit and smile. Yet, the image barely fading on my retina, and still vivid in my visual memory, was of a dead man.
How to separate the intensity of that memory from life outside the hospital? Detachment. That is the word, the process. An ability to cut the lines of emotion that stretch from the wards though the sliding doors, along the train track or the A-Road or the cycle lane, thin but tenacious like the silk spun by a giant spider of Middle Earth. Pull as hard as you like, they don’t snap. Yet, to avoid darkening our homes, they do need to be cut.
Detachment. This process has received a bad press recently. The surgeon who burned his initials onto a living liver was defended by Henry Marsh, who used ‘detachment’ as a justification. Detachment can impede our ability to sympathise and to emphathise. In this example, it permitted transformation of a patient in an object to be signed. Any detachment we achieve on leaving the hospital or the surgery, has to be reversed when we re-enter the building.
So perhaps it’s not detachment that is required. Perhaps it is management, of bad or upsetting memories. By this I mean the ability to live with them. Compartmentalisation. Reduction. Or temporary blindness. A method by which negative emotion can be pushed to the margins of our minds, while the lives of others who have no knowledge of the patients, and therefore cannot truly ‘care’ except in an abstract sense, proceed uninterrupted. Silence is one option. Yet this requires the healthcare worker to conceal his or her thoughts and behave normally. This means acting, and the dissonance between inner reflections and external actions could, in time, be harmful. I have no reliable answer. My own method, as readers of this blog will know, is to turn a thing over, look at it from several angles, and process it through words. That doesn’t work for everyone (there would be far too many blogs!).
My final answer is this: doctors and nurses will always bring the memory of death into the home. To leave it on the street is unrealistic. To bury it is harmful. To talk about it incessantly is unfair on those we live with. The only other option, perhaps, is to develop a special facility – to carry the emotional load with as much sadness and respect as death deserves, while simultaneously accepting that the lives lost do not intersect with those who are close to us. The sadness is of a different quality, with a translucence and impermanence that alters us but cannot rob us of normal social reflexes, or the ability to enjoy ourselves.
And do look at my Amazon author page