“If your heart is broken, make art with the pieces.” – Shane Koyczan
The low-pitched, gut-wrenching, tortured wail of grief sounds the same in every language. A sound that gives you chills to your core. The sound of unbridled pain. Sometimes, after especially brutal shifts, I can still hear those horrifying screams ringing in my ears.
The first time I heard it, I was a student; the patient was eight. He had been admitted the entire time I was on my pediatric rotation with complications from leukemia, but was slowly improving. In fact, the medical team was talking about transferring him out of the ICU. He unexpectedly coded one day while we were rounding; his mom was in the shower. She heard the alarms and came running, arriving to the room barely dressed and soaking wet. Because I was a student, I smashed myself against the wall to observe. He did not make it.
As they called time of death, and the alarms that initially alerted us to his deteriorated condition were silenced, I remember looking around the room trying to find something familiar, because everything in that moment seemed so foreign. It was not right; he was too young to die. Hanging around the room were hundreds of letters and cards from his classmates, wishing he would be well again. All of them telling the story of his vibrant life, a stark contrast to what I now saw. His mother was crumpled laying on the floor in a heap near my feet, understandably weeping. The faces of the seasoned medical professionals appeared so emotionless, mechanical, and cold. I wondered how they could be so unfeeling. I wanted to lay on the floor with his mother, but I pulled myself together, fearing I would appear weak. I did not cry until I got into my car that night. In my grief over his life cut short, I made a vow to myself that I would never be so detached.
Walking in the room that day, I thought I would learn about the role of a pharmacist in a pediatric code, and I did, but it also deeply and completely changed me. The idea that I could grow through this experience still seems objectionable. However, death and loss teach us something about ourselves and challenge our assumptions. We have no choice about death. We have no choice but to grieve. What we can choose is how we will respond…will we grow better, or will we grow bitter?
It was in that moment that I chose to grow better. I reassessed my life and how I functioned within it. My priorities changed. Now, every day, I make a choice to be optimistic and kind to those I encounter. I am determined to truly listen to those around me. I dive deep into my spirituality, because what good is all this without the love of God beside me. I have realized that I am stronger than I ever thought or knew I was. Most of all, I am grateful for my life. His death taught me about living; it also changed a job into my vocation. I wish I could tell his mom how much he touched my life and changed my attitude.
When I made the promise that I would never grow jaded, I also vowed that if there ever came a day when I, too, was emotionless, mechanical, and cold, I would hang it up. Yet, how do I remain optimistic despite the heartbreaking things I regularly see? The truth: there is no simple answer. Thus, Inspired Pharmacist was created to document this journey, my journey. A journey of gratitude, hope, love, and resilience – the good drugs of life.
Inspired Pharmacist 