I am currently sitting in a hospital waiting room, listening to the low hum of the tv in the background and the hospital busy bodies floating around outside the open doorway, as is common for this breed of room. At the moment, I sit alone as the darkness blankets the sky outside and the hospital instinctively quiets down with the arrival of the evening. A few moments ago this waiting room was bustling with a large family waiting for news on how their mom did during surgery. They were like any family, they laughed and teased each other, made a coffee call each time one of them left the room, their close ties evident in every gesture. But as soon as the surgeon entered the room, a silence so deafening fell over them it almost hurt my ears. In that one moment, that microsecond between their silence and the surgeons first words, the tension was palpable. The humor fell away and all that was left was the silent desperate plea to fate that their loved one pulled through.
I do not know what the surgeon had to tell them (I am assuming it was ok since their tension melted quite a bit as they left the waiting room) but I knew in that moment, this is what medicine is about. Whether you are a surgeon or primary care physician, you are caring for somebody who means the world to another person. You are being trusted with someone's most valued gift, their body. Their livelihood. You are working not just to give them the best life possible but to give their loved ones the time they crave. Time to make memories and right wrongs. Time to live. Some days this isn't what happens, some days fate has other ideas and all we can do watch as she sweeps into our lives without warning and leaves us confused, and at times broken. But then there are the days that allow you to be the relief, the light at the end of the tunnel that gives them permission to breathe again.
The family I mentioned before seemed ok with what the surgeon said but once he left there were many tears as the wave of relief crashed against the tension they had been holding at bay. Their happiness was no longer balancing precariously in the realm of the unknown, they had firm footing once more. I have been there. I have been the one waiting, holding my breath, seeking sure footing. And I know the relief that comes with the knowledge that you can breath easily once more. I look forward to the time when I can offer that sure footing and reassurance to others. What an amazing experience to be able to serve others in this way, even if sometimes that isn't always how it works out.
