What I learned from my mother

Another significant part of the week was the theme of death and loss which emerged in many instances. In grand rounds this morning, one of the assistant program directors--Dr S--gave a "Tribute to a Teacher," which was dedicated to a rather unusual, complex, and challenging patient with Marfan's Syndrome among a host of other problems. Her many phsyicians (including residents who helped admit her to the hospital 24 times over the last few years) often found themselves mired in frustration. This patient died rather suddenly and unexpectedly not too long ago.

The time since has allowed Dr S a period of reflection. Her tribute was warm-hearted and even sentimental, which contrasted sharply with the frustration I knew many felt with this patient. However, at the end, she reminded us what our job as physicians really was: to take care of patients both in health and as they die. Dr S asked herself regarding this diffcult patient, "Did I inquire into her faith journey? Did I ask her about her biggest fears? Did I let her know that I understood her fears?"

This reminds me of a relatively young patient I've taken care of recently (see link) who is now at home on hospice care. I felt the urgency and gravity of somehow meeting more needs of this patient than simply managing hypertension and arranging for hospice care. Much time I spent with the family as they hung tenaciously to hope and faith. And yet I had the feeling that there was something I wasn't facing head on. This was it. I think I was afraid to delve into acknowledging this woman's fears. It's one thing to pray with her for grace and peace; perhaps it's another to open myself up to sharing in her fears. The least I could do is acknowledge them.

And this is why a poem I ran across this week stood out to me. It is written by Julia Kasdorf, and its title is "What I Learned from My Mother."

I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewings even if I didn't know
the deceased, to press the moist hands
of the living, to look in their eyes and offer
sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing,
what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease
awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another's suffering my own usefulness, and once
you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.