Dr. Bella Kalayilparampil, PGY-2by Dr. Bella Kalayilparampil, PGY-2

A stranger’s hand is clutched in mine. We walk slowly, dreading every step. The fluorescent lights blind us. The hospital is, in some ways, like a casino— you can never tell what time of day it is. We’re fast approaching the room. I give his hand a final squeeze and release. I can only watch for a few seconds before I feel like I’ve interrupted something sacred. I see the man I walked with collapse onto the bed that has safely tucked away his first-born, his best friend, and the son he’ll never see again. The man’s body shakes violently as he hugs the body of what once was and what will never become. The blanket slips off the pale shoulder of the young man who had been my patient and in perfect contrast I see the words “Life is Beautiful” imprinted on his skin. I want to run far away from this place. This casino where the dice of fate roll to determine if you survive or die. Where you can’t tell whether it’s night or day. If you’re alive or if a part of you has died too.

I remember walking away from this incident in the medical ICU and feeling an overwhelming sense of loss. I had admitted this patient from the emergency room almost 3 weeks prior to his passing. I had grown close to him and his father. I shared jokes, met his family members, and listened to the music he liked. I secretly had hopes for him— for the life he may have lived. I remember the day so vividly. Loss like this can either make you forget the details or leave them etched in your memory forever. I remember apologizing to my team about the tears, the runny nose, the absentmindedness I had that day. I remember trying to convince myself that it was sad, but not that sad. This wasn’t my family member; this wasn’t my brother or this wasn’t my son. This was just a patient that was very sick for a very long time, and his death wasn’t unexpected. Yet, despite these attempted rationalizations, why did I break a little that day? Why do I still break a little today? Maybe it’s because we aren’t just doctors taking care of patients. We are people taking care of people. We have just as much capacity to come to care for these strangers than we do anyone else in the world around us. We perhaps have more, given that we see them every day, we know their most personal details, we’re with them in painfully vulnerable moments, we hold their hand on the worst days of their lives. How is it then we tell ourselves that separating the person from the doctor is normal when it’s the same heart that breaks when you experience loss inside and outside the hospital?

There is strength in caring about patients and not just caring for them. While I can't deny that there are healthy boundaries that exist between work and our personal lives, I also can't accept that both entities do not flow freely into the other on a daily basis. I feel empowered by my ability to connect with other human beings, regardless of the setting in which I meet them. I am still me no matter the building I walk into, no matter the coat that I wear, no matter the particular role that I play in any given moment. On a personal level, I choose to care. I choose to see value in human connections, even if they can be painful for me, and I choose to stop resisting the notion that life is beautiful, even when it ends.