I’m sorry…?
I just called to … tell you it wasn’t my fault? To see how you were doing? Express my condolences? (What does that even mean? Does anyone ever express just a single condolence?)
No, I don’t know how things changed so quickly. Or why we couldn’t stop it.
No. I don’t know what that is like.
I don’t know what I would do. Either.
It took me five days to call the husband of the lady that had died so quickly and unexpectedly. I shuffled phrases and calm answers in my mind; choosing ones that weren’t defensive or guilt-ridden or careless. On the first two days postmortem, I figured he might be too sad, or angry, or busy with funeral arrangements. On the other days I was just too exhausted from running around until late evening from rounding to ER to floor crisis to even consider calling. Finally, at the end of the fifth day, I sucked it up and prepared for the worst.
“Hi, may I speak to Mr. A?”
“This is him.”
“Hi, Mr. A. This is Scott L., Dr. Scott. I was the attending who … admitted your wife to the hospital. I heard what happened and I just called to express my condolences. Um, how are you doing?”
“Oh. Hello. I’m doing okay. It’s nice to hear from you. Thank you. We just had the open funeral. It was a shock at first. But I’m doing alright.”
“That’s good to hear. It was a shock, to all of us. The other docs feel bad too. She was such a nice person, too young for this to happen. We’re still trying to figure out what could have been done differently, if anything.”
“Yeah, but you know, she should have gone in sooner. And everyone was so amazing. I couldn’t believe how many doctors tried helping her that night. If I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I really would not have believed it. Really. But I saw how hard everyone was trying. You don’t have to worry none about that.”
“I … I’m glad you’re doing alright.”
“I wish I could thank each one of you personally and shake your hands. I mean it.”
“I’ll pass it on. I’m sure everyone will appreciate hearing that. How are your kids dealing with it?”
“They’re 29 and 30. Taking it hard.”
“Understandably.”
I was so relieved and a little surprised that their “children” were that age. They seemed old enough to have a little of life’s foundation to fall back on. My brother and I were 12 and 13 when our dad died. You just never want someone else to go through that, especially during those formative years. At that age, a parent’s death becomes your life’s foundation.
“But they’ll be okay.”
“Have, uh, any other docs contacted you?”
“No, you’re the first.”
“Yeah. They’re just … scared. And disappointed, and sorry about the whole thing.”
“Well, I appreciate what they tried to do. I sure do.”
I recognized familiar sounds in the background, “I hear children. Grandkids?”
“Yeah. They’re playing, heheh. They keep me young.”
—
Afterwards I sent an email to the colleague who covered that night, who also wondered what he could have done differently. I wrote:
“FYI:
I actually called Mr. A today, just to express my condolences. He is doing well. He is grateful for the care everyone gave that night. He was amazed so many physicians tried to help. He had no questions or ill will.”
He emailed back that night:
“Thanks a lot, Scott. He looked awful when the hell broke loose but then he had a gleam of hope…. I’ll call her husband as well.”
Copycat.
