I just finished my week on the addictions unit. The best summary I can create is that, "People. Are. Crazy." And these aren't even the real crazy people. I'll meet them all in the ward next week.
At the same time, it was very humbling. I attended an AA meeting earlier this week, and I was astounded when I walked in the door at 6:25 am. There were so, so many people in that gym--I'd expected a small circle of about 15 people, mostly older broken men, in a small room somewhere. Instead, I encountered more than 70 people seated in a gym, and among them I saw fellow students, attendings, and nurses I recognized from the hospital--there as patients. Young people, professors, grandmothers. Guys in ripped shorts and guys in suits with stethoscopes around their necks. It was inspiring.
Also, I met my first Antisocial. This personality type is the most common "sociopath" identifier and is recognized in test questions as having childhoods involving prolonged bed-wetting, the habit of setting fires, and animal mutilation, all before the age of 15. Of course, as I was admitting this guy, nothing he told me had anything to do with urination or cutting up cats and setting his room on fire. Turns out that these guys (or girls), in reality, usually have pasts that include abuse and are currently extremely manipulative, with no qualms about hurting anybody and everybody to get what they want. I didn't realize that's what this dude was like until he started trying to strong-arm the staff into giving him privileges he didn't have, and after I heard him unabashedly lying to and manipulating someone he "loved" over the phone. Or maybe after he tells me he's abusive towards his pregnant girlfriend, or I find out that he requires sex from her much more often than she wants it (his average estimate was twice a day). Yeah, all of that.
Meeting him underscored for me that there will be patients I do NOT want to interact with. Patients that I may come to despise, even, and may see no worth or value in--but I need to figure out how to love these people. At least, how to interact with them in a way where they feel as valued as they would if they had spent time with Jesus. Which sounds ridiculous. I can't do that. Not even close. I'm not even sure I want to try, to be honest. But I think it's a worthwhile goal and I would like to learn how.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Shirley
Her name was Shirley, she was 76 years old, and the last thing she told me was that she was looking forward to drinking tea with me, but that she was going to go home and rest awhile. I hugged her granddaughter goodbye, went out to the elevator, and cried. She was so tiny, in that hospital bed, with great bruises on her arms from the blood thinners and a tear on her shoulder from a piece of tape that took the skin with it. Even when I held her hand, the skin turned dark under my thumb. Her eyes were still so blue, but she found it hard to talk to me much. She just smiled and called me "honey" as we got her ready to go home for the last time.
There were more tears, three days later, when Sherrie told me that her gran was dead. How odd, to be sincerely mourning the death of someone I've only spent a few hours with over the course of several months, but I do, regardless.
After they took her home, one of the last things she had them do was hang this picture. That's us, there in the middle--my mom, dad, and siblings. She always wanted to hear about my family, and one night I went to see her, late, and took a picture so she'd know what they looked like. When she went home, she added it to the family tree on her living room wall. It was one of the most profound gifts I have ever experienced, to be so welcomed into a family like that.
They tell us not to let people in, to leave work in the hospital and separate your life and emotion from the people you treat--that they will sap your strength and break your heart if you give them too much of yourself. And that is the truth of it. But every once in a while, you meet people who are worth it. Tears are such a small price to pay for being able to feel like I meant a great deal to that family, that I could actively make their lives better with just a little time and caring. Those are such small things, sometimes.
Anyway.
There were more tears, three days later, when Sherrie told me that her gran was dead. How odd, to be sincerely mourning the death of someone I've only spent a few hours with over the course of several months, but I do, regardless.
After they took her home, one of the last things she had them do was hang this picture. That's us, there in the middle--my mom, dad, and siblings. She always wanted to hear about my family, and one night I went to see her, late, and took a picture so she'd know what they looked like. When she went home, she added it to the family tree on her living room wall. It was one of the most profound gifts I have ever experienced, to be so welcomed into a family like that.
They tell us not to let people in, to leave work in the hospital and separate your life and emotion from the people you treat--that they will sap your strength and break your heart if you give them too much of yourself. And that is the truth of it. But every once in a while, you meet people who are worth it. Tears are such a small price to pay for being able to feel like I meant a great deal to that family, that I could actively make their lives better with just a little time and caring. Those are such small things, sometimes.
Anyway.
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