Even then, I knew. I knew it would hunt me down some day. I knew the name before the police office laid the subpoena down on the table, stepping away quickly so we could maintain 6 feet for social distancing while I reluctantly picked the heavy envelope up. The prosecutor was grateful for my meticulous level of detail - courteous, deferential even. It wasn't me on trial, after all.
“I just watched her… suffocating. In her own fluids. I kept asking if she wanted more help, if she wanted to go on the ventilator and all she was able to say was, ‘No’. I don’t know what to do, M. I don’t know how to help her. I can’t… I can’t watch her suffer anymore.” Pixelated tears turned into currents streaming down the face I’ve loved since I was 13.
"I can't send him back to that place. This is my father. Please, help me take care of him." The rollercoaster of emotions of that moment threatened to run me over again even now: struggling to stuff down the frustration of having to adjust course after I was THISCLOSE to discharging him back to his skilled nursing facility, to the remorse washing over me as I spotted tears in this herculean man's eyes while he squeezed the limp hand of D's half paralyzed body. How could I not be moved by the determination in his melodic Arabic voice as he made the decision to take on caring for his father who was suffering from a recent stroke?
"So... who's looking for a new job?" We scanned each other's eyes over the Zoom screen, as if the miniature windows of these four pixelated beauties could reveal any hidden truths. Nothing. Taking a sip of my pinot gris, I soaked in the uncomfortable silence. Conversation was always going to land here. Months spent on Slack commiserating over this foreign new world of startup culture, complaining about our ineffective EMR, griping about entitled patients - and yet, this topic had never been breached. It clearly had been top of mind as I watched everyone glance away from their screens, yet no one wanted to answer. No one wanted to shatter the illusion that we didn't know one of us would eventually walk away from our unexpected support group.
"You're a doctor! You're just going to let people suffer?" The flash of fury I suppressed earlier that morning unexpectedly came back in a blaze. I heard the volume of my voice rise alongside the heat flooding my cheeks. "Who's letting who suffer, Papa? Is it me? Is it doctors and healthcare workers who've been trying to stem the tide of this pandemic? Or is it the people who refuse to believe in science and have been spreading the plague because of their right to personal freedom? Who carries that responsibility? WHO CARRIES THE BLAME?"
"Hi!!!"
Her familiar chipper soprano voice greeted me, but her face couldn't hide the terrible truth over the last 2 months. Beyond N's trademark brilliant smile, the exhaustion in her eyes spoke tales of living in survival mode. But the conviction – the same look that almost drew me into a career in hematology/oncology – was there, loud and clear.
Setting the food down on the kitchen island, I quickly turned around and wrapped her into a hug as tightly as her port would allow.
Holding back tears, the journey here flashed in my mind.
"What's even the point?"
I turned to X and took in the deep breath he couldn't through his wet mask.
In this moment, I was supposed to reassure him.
He has worth.
He is loved.
There's a reason he's still here.
But that script felt too empty. Too easily cast aside by a fellow weary, cynical mind.
"I don't know, X."
Stirring, J turned to his side and pulled me in close. Eyes burned and nostrils flared as I tried to forget this would be the last time we'd hug for another 3 weeks. My attempts to be mindful and in-the-moment failed as I recalled the previous night's discussion.
"So how long are you going to self-quarantine for, M?"
"Definitely for the week I'm rounding. And... since I'll probably end up seeing COVID patients, probably for another 2 weeks after that."
"... makes sense."
Staring at J's outline on Facetime, all I could make out was the reflection of his phone's screen in his glasses. This was how we'd been communicating while he was in quarantine - in the same house but never physically crossing paths. To J's credit, as soon as I instructed him to self-isolate, he transformed our master bedroom into a little apartment, complete with a kitchenette and command center so he could continue to work remotely/play FIFA on Xbox without leaving the bed. Since I arrived home, I'd been placing meals outside the slider to our bedroom and waving at him through windows or from 12 feet away. Not a single complaint. Not one effort to "break" any rules. He had been a perfect, 100% compliant patient. But the cracks were starting to show.
With a startle, he woke up. "Ah, yes. I fell asleep waiting for you! It's about time you came! Now, I want to talk to you about getting better." Nodding my head, the words I'd been mulling over for the last 2 hours finally started to take shape. How many different ways do you have to tell someone he's dying before it takes hold? How many times do you have to repeat yourself before the reality of the situation settles in?