Numb and Number

Empathy and sympathy - two closely related words that basically connote the experiencing of someone else's pain. A sensitive soul can understand your pain and cry genuine tears with you.

But you won't get any tears out of me. Not likely, anyway. I'm just not a crying type of guy. But more than that, I have become numb and number in order to function in my world of doctoring. I'm proud and ashamed to say that I can float through an entire day witnessing heaps of pain without shedding a tear. Gruesome illnesses, undignified deaths, and impossible moral dilemmas afflict my patients and their families. It's raining pain in the hospital, but my umbrella is wide and sturdy. But it is protecting me or blinding me?

The umbrella allows me to maintain composure during horrible situations. It keeps me on the objective side of the issues. I can continue to juggle several tasks at once (something I don't do well at home). One moment I'm telling a 40 year old woman that her husband will likely never wake up from his coma, and 5 minutes later I'm checking the internet for basketball scores.

Maybe I should poke some holes in my umbrella. A little pain never hurt anyone. Sometimes I do stop and think about how miserable my patients are. They're crippled with chronic diseases and they can't maintain normal, independent lives. I realize that my life is good. Not perfect, but stupendously good. My troubles don't disappear, but they're temporarily engulfed by the waters around me. Suddenly I want to go home and see my wife. Quit my job. Find a part-time job that will pay the bills. Drop my ambitious projects. Have kids sooner rather than later.

I need my umbrella to fail me at times. I'd be a better doctor if I could actually feel a bit of my patient's pain instead of simply acknowledging it. I'd be a better husband. And when we have kids, a beter father.