Helplessness

Many years ago, someone I loved was in the hospital and whenever I would visit, I would display my badge prominently. She wasn’t inmy hospital; my ID badge opened no doors; it didn’t get me free food in the cafeteria. It was a talisman, something to ward off the evil I would wade through, something that might have some magic—any magic—to help us through this hell.

Some people respond to this helplessness not with magic but with anger. It’s one of those things doctors have to learn to deal with. When families lash out, it’s not about you. Your white coat is the magic that wasn’t, the shield that let through the plague arrows.

Some get bossy—very bossy. They focus on the minutiae, the things that doctors and nurses know aren’t important. The shades aren’t drawn right, the medicine is ten minutes late, the meal tray is all wrong. What about that bandage, doesn’t anyone see it’s bunched up?

We are all at some point powerless in the face of disease, and we reach for what little power we have. We huddle together against the biting wind, cobbling together what shelter we can, and wait for the storm to pass.

1 Comment

  1. Here’s hoping that hell is a long-distant memory.

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