This past May, the Department of Medicine’s Culture & Inclusion portfolio hosted its fifth annual Story Slam. These events celebrate storytelling by allowing participants to share brief stories with an audience. This year’s theme was “Filling Buckets.”
Below is the transcript for the story Dr. Tony Fang, a PGY-3 in internal medicine, shared at the event, entitled Mary:
She held her iPad toward me and asked, what’s the password for the wifi?Thinking about my next consult waiting in the Emergency Department, I quickly went to the wifi menu, located the hospital guest network and accepted the terms and conditions to successfully obtain the wifi connection. I handed her iPad back to her. She thanked me and I proceeded to my next patient.
This was Mary (not her real name), an elderly woman who had accompanied her husband, a gentleman in his 90s with severe aortic stenosis, transferred to our hospital for an elective TAVI. She continued happily with her iPad at bedside, sitting comfortably in her chair in the corner, playing Candy Crush and reviewing the news about fallen Canadian soldiers.
On the following day, it was nearing 7:30 and the overnight house staff were not present yet. To me, this was unusual and raised the hairs on my skin to check the coronary care unit. As I walked into the unit, I could see our fellow busily reviewing with bedside nurses about our patient. I came up to our fellow asking if there was anything I could help him with and he told me Bed 16 had a stroke.
The news didn’t sink in with me immediately. I had not seen many TAVIs completed prior and understood they were generally very safe, although did come with the risk for cerebrovascular events. As I had passed by their room, I could see through the glass that Mary was no longer holding onto her iPad and that she was holding dearly on to her husband. He was still as a stone, and the rhythmic sound of the ventilator could be heard – breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out. There was no time to stand as my leg took one step after the other toward the conference room for handover.
Throughout the day was a melting pot of goals of care discussions with different family members including Mary, his son, his grandson and granddaughter-in-law, all with their views and perspectives. Everyone wanted to hear the story for themselves. Kindly introducing themselves and requesting for the full story in detail once again. I felt myself winding backwards, similar to a cassette tape, and repeating the sad story over and over. It had almost felt robotic saying the same phrases again, but to a different face. At the end of the day as I was updating the list, I wrote down for B16 f-u-l-l c-o-d-e.
The next morning, when I had presented to the hospital, I went by the unit first. The unit was dark, the nursing staff were not currently seen, there was little activity on the unit. The creaking of the automatic doors closing could wake a newborn baby in their slumber. I went to B16 first. Mary was sitting on the chair in the corner, staring at her husband. The room was dark with only a sliver of white light from the hallway providing an under glow to the room. The room smelt sterile, like skin freshly swabbed with chlorohexidine. I whispered a good morning and sat on the ground beside her. I held her hand, looking at her husband. I could hear the stifled whimper and see the tears glide on her face. And in that moment, we sat together in the dark corner of the room – waiting – as we knew what would come.
Little did I know that meeting Mary would teach me about filling buckets. It would teach me that as healthcare providers, we are often carrying the sorrows and tears of our patients with us. For people that we may have met for less than a day to long-term patients we may have known for years, we are an amalgamation of our patients’ experiences. Few careers exist that our presence alone can be soothing and therapeutic to our patients and their families. Few careers allow us to see the raw, instinctual emotions humans draw to in the face of a devastating, traumatic loss. Few careers let us explore this complex concept we call humanity.
I feel privileged that I can pursue such an incredible career where I can be part of so many peoples’ stories. It can take an enormous amount of energy to carry the sadness of our patients, but at the same time, I feel energized to be able to be the one to do so. I’ve been told this more than once, and I hope to never lose this human-part of me to be able to carry the tears of my patients and patients’ families, which to the contrary, fills my bucket and purpose in medicine.
