Through repeated, painful lessons, I soon learn about the symptoms of illness that go beyond the scientific ones described in a textbook. When we enter the room of a pediatric patient with a particularly complex case, the air in the room feels tense, like a stretched rope on the verge of snapping.
“How are you feeling?” the physician asks the parent after a few initial questions. “Are you doing okay?”
The parent pauses before breaking down and sobbing.
On another day, we see a child diagnosed hours earlier with a brain tumor. I am introduced not as a student like normal, but as a colleague, despite my utter lack of knowledge or help. In the patient’s innocent eyes, I am reminded of a childhood friend who passed away from cancer. The father does not say much. His quiet gaze is glued on his little son bundled up in the hospital sheets—sheets that have been sanitized countless times to hold countless children before. When the father does look up, I wish I could assure him that his son is going to be okay and tell him this is all a bad dream and that he can wake up now.
Instead, when his eyes reach mine, I look down at the floor tiles because I feel like a fraud. I want to crumble, but I remain stalwart—for now. When I get home, my emotions pour out in the shower where at least my tears, tinged with the dark, dirty shades of pain, can attempt to hide in the clear, cleansing water as I wonder/hope/dread for when (or if) I will become more numb to loss.