The Price of Wildly Happy Days
Molly Taylor, MD, MS, a pediatric oncologist in Seattle, sees the deeply sad days as the price an oncologist pays to be witness to the “wildly happy ones.”
Dr. Taylor has gone to patients’ funerals, has even been asked to speak at them, but she has also attended patients’ weddings.
To some degree, doctors get good at compartmentalizing, and they become accustomed to tragedy, she said. But there are some patients who stick with you, “and that is a whole other level of grief,” Dr. Taylor said.
Several years into her practice, one of Dr. Taylor’s patients, someone who reminded her of her own child, died. The death came as a surprise, and the finality of it took her breath away, she said. The sadness only deepened as days went by. “I felt that mother’s grief and still do,” she said.
The patient’s funeral was one of the most difficult moments in her career as an oncologist. Even weeks later, she caught herself picturing the family huddled together that day.
Taking long walks, commiserating with colleagues who get it, and watching the occasional cat video can help take the immediate sting away. But the pain of losing a patient can be long lasting and processing that grief can be a lonely endeavor.
“We need space to recognize grief for all providers, all the people that touch these patients’ lives — the nurses, the translators, the cleaning staff,” Dr. Taylor said. Otherwise, you start to believe you’re the only one feeling the weight of the loss.
While it doesn’t make the losses any less poignant, Dr. Taylor finds solace in the good moments: Patient graduations and weddings, survivors who now volunteer at the hospital, and a patient who had a baby of her own this past year. If facing grief daily has taught Dr. Taylor anything, it is to not let the good moments pass unnoticed.
Towing the Line
Ten years ago, Tina Rizack, MD, walked into the ICU to see a young mother holding her 6-year-old daughter. The mother had necrotizing fasciitis that had gone undiagnosed.
As Dr. Rizack stood in the doorway watching the embrace, she saw a grim future: A child without her mother. This realization hit too close to home, she said. “I still think about that case.”
In her training, Dr. Rizack, now medical director of hematology/oncology at St. Anne’s in Fall River, Massachusetts, worked with a social worker who taught her how to deal with these tough cases — most importantly, how to not take them home with her.
Over the years, Dr. Rizack learned how to build and sustain a firm barrier between work and outside work.
She doesn’t go to funerals or give out her cell phone number. If charts need to be done, she prefers to stay late at the clinic instead of bringing them home.
And she invests in the simple moments that help her detach from the day-to-day in the clinic — rooting for her kids at their games, carving out time for family meals most days, and having relaxed movie nights on the couch.
“It’s hard sometimes,” she said. But “I really do need the line.” Because without it, she can’t show up for her patients the way she wants and needs to.
Establishing the work-life boundary means that when at work, Dr. Rizack can be all in for her patients. Even after her patients’ treatment ends, she makes sure to check on them at home or in hospice. For her, sticking with patients over the long term offers some closure.
“I want to love work, and if I’m there all the time, I’m not going to love it,” she said.