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My first dead body | page 1, 2, 3
Which is why, as I stood framed in the doorway, the one thought I had that shone above all the others was, simply, "Boy, this sure is creepy." I mean, after all -- this guy was dead. For the first time since my medical training began, it occurred to me just what it meant to be dead. No one had ever discussed this with me before. Mr. Fitzgerald was turning cold and blue. His joints had become stiff and his flesh was becoming hard, like raw meat. I looked at my shaking hands and realized that, for the first time in my short-lived internship, I was freaking out. In all of medical school, you're never once given the time to think about death. After all, we were devoting our lives to preventing death. Once the patient died, you had failed. So why devote time to learning what it's like to face a dead man, when that time could be spent learning a new way you could have kept him alive? What they hadn't considered in med school, however, was that at some point, every doctor was going to have to face the death of a patient. And when that happened, the med student -- or intern, or resident or attending -- was also going to have to face the feelings that went along with it. Not just the feelings that perhaps you could have done something more, but also the feelings that every human being, doctor or not, shares when faced with the bad side of mortality. The feelings of the cold stiffness creeping from the deceased person's body into yours; and the feeling of your own fragility that goes along with it. I looked down at my hands again; only living things shake. The soft rustling of the family members brought me back to the quick realization that, all of these thoughts aside, I still did not have any idea of just what I was supposed to do here, but that I had better figure it out soon. I tried to remember that night as a fourth-year student, but the details, hazy at the time, were all but erased in the present. So I did just what had gotten me through my internship so far -- made a concerted effort to look like I was doing what a doctor was supposed to do. I calmed my hands, walked to the patient, frowned knowingly and palpated a few things. Then I listened to a few others. I shone my pen light on various body parts and put my stethoscope on different ones. After several minutes of fidgeting around the body of Mr. Fitzgerald, I gave one last somber nod to the family, gravely shook hands with each person, and told them I was sorry. I waited for the questions, the wailing, the begging for a miracle. But none came. Instead, they each thanked me quietly, and let me go on my way. I found myself lingering near the door, wishing that they would ask me a question, that there was in fact some way I could do more. But the chaplain had already arrived and was speaking soothingly with the distraught wife. And the others, her children I supposed, were hugging and reassuring her. I stepped away quietly to figure out just what one writes in the medical chart in this situation, and found myself wondering what medical school could have done to more adequately prepare me. Certainly, I could have done a better job of memorizing what sort of exam to perform. But from an emotional standpoint, perhaps facing death -- as a doctor, a family member or even a patient -- is something that can't really be taught. Perhaps, when it comes to this Great Equalizer, the one thing we will all someday hold in common is that we must all approach it simply as human beings.
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