it's all but a memory

For the umpteenth time in months, I found myself wondering, "How did I even get here?"

Here where complete strangers were divulging personal stories that made my heart break, here where they cried openly while I sat and watched, my mind a complete blank.

Medicine had not trained me for this, in fact, I'd even go so far as to say life thus far hadn't prepared me for this.

Which brings me to my second question, "Why am I even here?"

Here where I felt like a completely useless git with all to say yet with nothing leaving my lips, here where I was a bumbling idiot trying to cleverly phrase my responses and questions.

Oh I'd had practice before I walked into these interviews, but they were with people who I knew and with people who shared madeup stories about their lives in response to my questions. They were people who, because weren't laying pieces of their past bare in front of me, weren't dredging up all the emotions attached to that past; and that was enough to make all my diligent preparations go soaring out the window.

Because how do I keep my face carefully arranged to be calm when my traitorous heart breaks into tiny pieces when I hear a painful story shared straight from someone else's heart? How can I not at least tear up when someone is sobbing unrestrained in front of me, when their pain feels so real that I could almost reach out and touch it?

As I sit there, watching numbly, my mind begins to run through the various options of what to say or do. My brain automatically cancels out phrases like "I understand/know how it feels like" and "It'd be okay" because at least medical school had taught me that they were taboo.

What about "It sounds like it's been hard"? I can almost imagine the reply being snapped back at me,"Yeah of course, it's hard, it doesn't take a freaking genius to figure that out!" and I mentally wince.

A quick thought flits through my mind, "If only I weren't in a professional setting, then I wouldn't be constrained by professional boundaries. I'd be able to react how I would in normal situations where I see someone crying." I would reach out and touch them on the arm, perhaps even allow my own eyes to grow wetter and allow my face to take on some emotion.


So, I find myself settling for a simple silence punctuated with sobbing and choking gulps of air, and when they say "Sorry", I smile in a hopefully comforting way and quietly say "It's okay", and I wordlessly offer them a box of tissues. My face, in the meantime, is displaying calm.

I think it's funny how the health profession emphasizes the need to care and to serve with a human touch, but doesn't allow the basic, core need of sharing human emotions. When someone gets angry because they've just discovered they've got a terminal illness, are we allowed to go "That's a sucky diagnosis, and yeah life sucks! This downright stinks!"? When someone griefs because their loved one has just passed away, are we allowed to just sit and grief with them?

No, it's always, "It's okay for you to show the emotion, not me. I've got to remain the calm, professional one". It's not necessarily a bad thing, because goodness knows, when a crisis happens and if everyone's being all emotional, who's going to be able to snap out of it and into action?

But it's just an observation, and I've got another one.

As I deal with more sessions, I find the task of detaching myself from whatever human emotion that person sitting opposite me is feeling easier and my reciprocation fades. I find myself thinking less and less about what to say and what to do, and instead settle into what almost seems like a routine (which I have described above). The pain being expressed feels less palpable to me, my heart cracks instead of shattering and easing a mask of calm onto my face becomes effortless; in fact I'm not entirely certain if it's even a mask anymore ... and I'm afraid.

I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that human emotional connection that I share with them will dwindle and then, finally disappear, leaving behind a cold someone who no longer feels on behalf of others. It scares the living daylights out of me so much so I know there's a tiny part of me clinging pathetically onto whatever shred of emotion I still feel, deep down, when someone cries. Given, that shred is much smaller than what it was when I first had people crying openly but at least there's still a shred.

I used to not like clinicians who seemed cold and unfeeling, who didn't seem to share whatever emotion their patient was expressing. Now what if I become like one of them?

Again, it's not necessarily a bad thing but, it's just an observation.

Then at long last, I find myself at the end of all my sessions, everything's wrapped up in a metaphorically nice pink bow. I still remember the voices that were raised to emphasize a point in their stories, the jabbing of table tops - again to emphasize points, the tears that flowed freely or banked up under their lids, the voices that broke in sadness, the hope that rang loud and clear; but it's now all over and I realize...

It is all but a memory now. I'd never forget this experience that has taught me so much and made a magnificently deep impression on my life, but ten years from now I'd probably be looking back on it all and say, "Hey, I totally don't understand why I struggled with that, was I such an idiot?"
But just for now, let it be that point in time where I learned tons, of myself as a person and from the stories of these strangers; that I am a horribly pathetic person who emphatizes too much and am a bumbling fool who doesn't know how to navigate professional situations rife with human emotions ... and that life is what you make of it.

If life decides to throw curveball after curveball your way, learn to duck out of its way and hold on for that day when a straight ball comes into your court of play. Hold on and hope. Hope is a beautiful thing that is both fragile and strong; fragile because those who aren't holding on to it can easily shatter it but strong because those who hold onto it, find their strength to fight another day renewed. And when that straight ball comes into your court of play? It'd be the most marvellous thing ever and you'd appreciate it all the more.

And with that I shall end my writing exercise!! :D I actually spent almost 3 hours writing that, gosh, retraining my writing muscles are going to be way harder than I expected :S

Feedback - or even just thoughts on the topic - is most welcome and much appreciated! :)