Before I start with the stories (altered, of course to preserve patients' privacy), I want to review the reasons I share them. First, it gives me an outlet for processing and sharing the patients whose stories stay with me. Second, it ensures in some way that I will not forget or grow numb in the busy succession of appointments and rounding. Third, it forces me to stop and remember that each patient I encounter is first a person - a real embodied life whose body has a problem that leads to their encounter with me. It encourages me to stop and look the person in the face, so to speak, encountering them as a human being as I review their story with you. May it remind you in whatever your field is to do the same.
I saw my first rape survivor recently in clinic. A 14 year old who was violated several weeks ago is now sitting withdrawn and quiet in the chair. So withdrawn and quiet I had trouble feeling that my compassion and regret for her situation could seep in past the shell she had put up. I felt very helpless, unable to reach her to comfort or support her, the protective barrier she had erected keeping out those intending her good as well as evil. It is hard not to feel hopeless in these situations as well. A friend's prayer as I shared my dismay over the whole situation reminded me that I am not ultimately powerless. I can still pray that God reaches past her brittle shell and embraces her, enabling her to heal and grow past and despite this and not to get mired, stunted, in the pain and vulnerability.
The next patient snapshot was a 26 year old G4P2012 (4th pregnancy, two living children, one abortion) at 8 weeks by her last period. She had bleeding yesterday and went to a different ER where an intrauterine pregnancy was visualized. She now is here for re-evaluation. Ultrasound shows an empty uterus after she passed clots all day yesterday, and the baby's hormone (beta-hCG) level is dropping quickly. The intern I am working with asks her after we give her the news, "How are you doing?" And we watch her face crumple before she covers it with her hands. Her sister, sitting with her, also tears up but doesn't move to offer comfort, so I move to the bed and put my arm over her shoulders and one hand over her hand on her belly and rock her, praying for her to somehow find peace in the midst of this disappointment as I hold her.
The final patient whose story struck me was a 55 year old woman who cried through most of her visit as she told me of her history of physical, emotional, and verbal abuse in her 30-year marraige. She shared how she finally left him after being really beat up one time about a year ago and of the ongoing abuse she endured at court appointments to get her support from him after their divorce. I admire her courage for finally getting out safely (since the most dangerous time for an abuse survivor is when she decides to leave) while simultaneously wondering how she will ever heal from all those years of fear and betrayal.
Sometimes I marvel at all the pain people carry, wishing I had a sponge to sop it all up, leaving these lives I encounter a bit lighter, less weighed down with their wounds and worries. I am reminded instead of something Stanley Hauerwas writes in his book, God, Medicine, and Suffering, "I cannot promise readers consolation, but only as honest an account as I can give of why we cannot afford to give ourselves explanations for evil when what is required is a community capable of absorbing our grief." In other words, what we often need is not an answer to our anguished Why? so much as someone willing to comfort and walk alongside us in the silent space of isolation that suffering produces.
In my words and actions, I seek in small ways to be part of a community capable of absorbing some of the grief I behold (see more on beholding in this blog post more than a year ago). In my silent prayers for these women, I seek to bring them before a Community truly able to absorb their grief - the Father who can hold them, the Brother who intimately knows what it is to suffer and shares in their pain, the Spirit who groans their hearts' cries with emotion beyond what words can express to the throne of the Lord of the universe when they do not even know how to pray. As Sarah Lance said in a quote I have across my computer screen daily, "I have the rare opportunity to share the hope of being found, known, loved, celebrated, forgiven and treasured by the God of the universe. This is my only answer for suffering." May these hurting lives I encounter also have a chance some day to encounter that hope.
I saw my first rape survivor recently in clinic. A 14 year old who was violated several weeks ago is now sitting withdrawn and quiet in the chair. So withdrawn and quiet I had trouble feeling that my compassion and regret for her situation could seep in past the shell she had put up. I felt very helpless, unable to reach her to comfort or support her, the protective barrier she had erected keeping out those intending her good as well as evil. It is hard not to feel hopeless in these situations as well. A friend's prayer as I shared my dismay over the whole situation reminded me that I am not ultimately powerless. I can still pray that God reaches past her brittle shell and embraces her, enabling her to heal and grow past and despite this and not to get mired, stunted, in the pain and vulnerability.
The next patient snapshot was a 26 year old G4P2012 (4th pregnancy, two living children, one abortion) at 8 weeks by her last period. She had bleeding yesterday and went to a different ER where an intrauterine pregnancy was visualized. She now is here for re-evaluation. Ultrasound shows an empty uterus after she passed clots all day yesterday, and the baby's hormone (beta-hCG) level is dropping quickly. The intern I am working with asks her after we give her the news, "How are you doing?" And we watch her face crumple before she covers it with her hands. Her sister, sitting with her, also tears up but doesn't move to offer comfort, so I move to the bed and put my arm over her shoulders and one hand over her hand on her belly and rock her, praying for her to somehow find peace in the midst of this disappointment as I hold her.
The final patient whose story struck me was a 55 year old woman who cried through most of her visit as she told me of her history of physical, emotional, and verbal abuse in her 30-year marraige. She shared how she finally left him after being really beat up one time about a year ago and of the ongoing abuse she endured at court appointments to get her support from him after their divorce. I admire her courage for finally getting out safely (since the most dangerous time for an abuse survivor is when she decides to leave) while simultaneously wondering how she will ever heal from all those years of fear and betrayal.
Sometimes I marvel at all the pain people carry, wishing I had a sponge to sop it all up, leaving these lives I encounter a bit lighter, less weighed down with their wounds and worries. I am reminded instead of something Stanley Hauerwas writes in his book, God, Medicine, and Suffering, "I cannot promise readers consolation, but only as honest an account as I can give of why we cannot afford to give ourselves explanations for evil when what is required is a community capable of absorbing our grief." In other words, what we often need is not an answer to our anguished Why? so much as someone willing to comfort and walk alongside us in the silent space of isolation that suffering produces.
In my words and actions, I seek in small ways to be part of a community capable of absorbing some of the grief I behold (see more on beholding in this blog post more than a year ago). In my silent prayers for these women, I seek to bring them before a Community truly able to absorb their grief - the Father who can hold them, the Brother who intimately knows what it is to suffer and shares in their pain, the Spirit who groans their hearts' cries with emotion beyond what words can express to the throne of the Lord of the universe when they do not even know how to pray. As Sarah Lance said in a quote I have across my computer screen daily, "I have the rare opportunity to share the hope of being found, known, loved, celebrated, forgiven and treasured by the God of the universe. This is my only answer for suffering." May these hurting lives I encounter also have a chance some day to encounter that hope.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.