Healing In Our Communities
Three years ago my husband died from rectal cancer. He was thirty years old. We had a five-month old girl and a three-year old boy when he was diagnosed. From diagnosis to death fourteen months passed, which changed my life forever. You see, I am not only a young widow, mother of two; but a young family doctor who knows what it is like to be on the other side of the bed. I felt the love and support of our communities and experienced the medical system from a different perspective. Like so many survivors of tragedy or those faced with life-threatening illness, life has been redefined for me. Life was like a photograph taken out of focus. Cancer sharpened my vision.
Many people during that time tried to encourage me by telling me I would be a better doctor because of my experience. Of course, I wasn't interested. The questions about suffering, fairness and the whereabouts of God have been at times overwhelming. I don't claim to have the answers. But I have chosen to believe a few things. First, that suffering is inevitable, life is a terminal condition and it matters what you make of it. Losing a spouse to cancer will probably make me a better doctor only because I have become a better human being. I am less "perfect" but more real. I can enter in to the dark places with my patients knowing that the sharing and caring heals me and them both. I am not afraid to weep. I know there is no "right" way to grieve. The best we can do for each other is to just be there.
I can see now how damaging the medical training process is. It takes idealistic healers, and creates cost-conscious care-providers, who are out of touch with themselves and unable to connect with their fellow human. Those in the hospital bed and those gathered round it, suffer because of it. The patient with loss of control and spiritual angst, the fearful family, unable to ask the burning questions and the doctor, largely powerless to effect a cure are all hurting and yet rarely able to help each other. The doctor in her life's work will see more death, tragic twists of fate and challenges to her sense of justice than most people can even imagine. And yet, the medical training ground and collegial relationships encourage her to avoid the questions and the sharing of pain, so as to protect herself.
This practice of distancing ourselves denies physicians the lifeblood of their work. Too many physicians are so disenfranchised that they regret their life's work. Fully two-thirds of family practice residents do not want to practice medicine. I believe that this has come from our loss of community. There has been a long tradition of healers in all societies, but these people were always integral to the functioning of their communities. The shamans, medicine men and wise women herbalists all were revered by their communities. They also were witness to birth, death, joy and tragedy; not removed from it at a comfortable distance. Being an upstanding member of the society did not mean belonging to the country club. The loss of this relationship has been followed by a lack of faith in the healer's abilities and an inability for them to recharge their batteries. The June 1998 issue of Life magazine has as its cover story the life of a new "old-fashioned" doctor. He and his family have recaptured that healing community relationship. There are a small number of fresh graduates who are going back to this idea.
In October of this year, John Schneider and I will be leading the first of a series of retreats for physicians aimed at helping them get in touch with their values and past experiences. They will also be introduced to various means of self-care and renewal. We will be exploring ways that the physician community can respond to crisis among its members. The retreat will take place at the Neahtawanta Inn. We are also involved in designing curriculum on Spirituality In Medicine at Michigan State University and their affiliated Family Practice Residencies. For me this work is healing and brings forth something good from sorrow. My prayer is that we can recover our lost compassion for ourselves, our families, colleagues and neighbors as well as our patients. We can be fully present to one another and know the unique joy of being part of the human community.
Email comments to MindyPeter@aol.com.
Return to the Index of Synapse 44, Summer 1998