Low-tech healing

Over at Emergiblog, I read a fabulous post moments ago that reminded me of the human, less-gory, less technical side of the medical world. And so I feel compelled to pass along something similar.

Last summer, a patient of mine was a six year old boy who'd drowned. When it was all said and done, there was nothing we could do to bring the kid back, and my heart broke in a million pieces when we called it and then in even more pieces when his mom got there. I think I've blogged about the horrible sound of a parent's grief before. It was difficult for me on a personal level, because the older of my two children was six at the time too. The mom talked about how her son loved the Power Rangers, how he wanted to be the red one... how he was such a good and responsible kid, that he knew he wasn't supposed to go under the fence... and how she blamed herself because she'd asked him to take out the trash that morning and she thought he was just dawdling. It happened quickly and she didn't know anything was wrong until the police knocked on her door. I can't imagine that kind of grief, of wondering what could you have done differently.

I never know what to say in situations like that, so I didn't say much. One of our hospital chaplains was in the room, and he kept offering blessings and words of comfort which were not comforting at all to someone who just lost her only child, her husband military and overseas and not yet aware he was newly childless too. He sat next to her, arm around her shoulders, and as I glanced up over my paperwork through the leaded glass I could see how uncomfortable she was and came up with some bogus reason to get the chaplain out of there for a few minutes, to give the mom some breathing room. And I was surprised by what happened next.

Our Emergency Department is sixth-busiest in the nation. It doesn't ever really slow down. We're always busting butt to turn the rooms over, see the next patient, do the next most important thing, and that's no different for our doctors. But the doctor who was attending this particular patient came into the room and quietly pulled up a stool, and sat on the other side of the gurney from mom. Just sat. I was astonished to see him just sit there, for a good 10-15 minutes, which in ER time is an eternity. He never said a word. Once, he reached across and laid his hand on top of mom's, on the boy's still chest. Not a word, for all that time, and it was perfect. His eyes conveyed what words couldn't have, and his quiet presence there was maybe the best thing anybody could've done for her. He seemed embarrassed afterward when I thanked him for what he did. But I was touched too. Some days the low-tech stuff is the first we forget about, but what the patients need the most.