I want to help him, but I need to know more about him

I pause in front of the door. On the other side, you all wait. A spouse, sons and daughters, sometimes with their own small children in tow. Today, it’s your husband and father you have come for. Yesterday it was someone else’s mother. You have come from near and far, across the street and the country. Your weary eyes are unable to mask your sadness. Over the past week, you have witnessed a steady stream of nurses, residents, phlebotomists and x-ray techs file in and out of his room. Your dad has withstood a barrage of insults to his body. Radiation to his chest for daily X-rays. Needles piercing skin and veins for IVs and blood draws. Catheters inserted in his neck, his groin and his bladder. Still, you hold on to a cautious optimism, clinging to hope. But family meetings usually imply things are not going well, and today is no exception. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and walk inside, leaving, for now, the rest of the world behind. I introduce myself, acutely aware all eyes are on me. “I’m the intensivist. Your dad’s doctor.” The first part of this meeting is the easiest. The story of your loved one. A medical one. It usually starts on the day of admission, but sometimes we need to go back weeks or months. I guide you all from the beginning to the present, to gather us all in the same space. And as we do this, I observe. Do you comfort each other? Hold hands? Place a head on your sibling’s shoulder? Or are you a room of individuals? Are years of straine...
Source: Kevin, M.D. - Medical Weblog - Category: General Medicine Authors: Tags: Physician Intensive care Source Type: blogs