Personal Narrative: The Failures Of Medicine

I vividly recall helicopter blades whirring in the midst of the treacherous storm, as if sending an ominous warning. A team of healthcare professionals immediately rushed him to surgery to restore the damage caused by the ruthless eighteen wheeler that had both severely injured him and taken his mother away. I anxiously awaited the results of the surgery as the minute hand inched its way across the clock, slowly turning minutes into hours. Finally, they transferred him into the recovery suite.

Relief flooded over me as he opened his eyes: eyes obviously confused by the unfamiliar face in front of them. As I was introducing myself as a volunteer at the Children’s Memorial Hermann Hospital, he abruptly interrupted, “Where is my mommy?”

For the first time in my life, words had failed me.

What do I say? Do I call the nurse? How do I explain to someone unable to even process death that his mother is gone? Despite my countless patient experiences, nothing had prepared me for this moment. This was my first test, gauging whether or not I was cut out for medicine. Whether or not I could manage the failures of medicine along with the triumphs. Whether or not I could comfort a patient in his most vulnerable time.

Suddenly, he began to weep; he knew. All of my life I believed that knowing the right things to say was the secret to being an effective helper. However, I quickly realized that it was not my job to be the hero, neither as a volunteer nor as a physician. Rather, it is my duty to provide the highest level of care possible. There is no established recipe to comfort others, but the ingredients required are the same for everyone: compassion, empathy, and patience, qualities I use today and will use in the future as a healthcare