Never have I ever had to rely on my communication skills as much as I have as a physician in the pandemic of 2020. My eyes, however, were not taught those skills. There are pillars in medicine, communication guidelines, and lessons in empathy — all things we learn in our training. I can’t say that I had a strong foundation in communication skills as a medical student, but I learned those skills with time. Nevertheless, there are moments in life when I sometimes forget. I sometimes forget that the person in front of me, my patient, is vulnerable, scared, and helpless.
In the midst of this pandemic, let’s not forget how we enter a room as physicians. Yellow gown, two masks, goggles, face shield, and gloves. Only our eyes making us human. As a patient lays in bed, all they see is a set of eyes glaring over them. My smile cannot comfort them, and my voice sounds muffled. As I speak to their family member on whatever video portal I can find, I see the worry in their eyes when they see their loved ones. I imagine the horror they must feel when only a set of eyes can be seen caring for their loved one. The human touch has been lost.
We are taught to legitimize and explore our patient’s concerns. I will never forget my 44-year-old firefighter who was on a non-rebreather in the ER. The last patient of the day for me. I was utterly exhausted. I went over his care plan; he understood, asked questions, and said he would update his wife.
“OK,” I thought, “this is one of my easier patients.”
As I turned to leave him, he grabbed my arm with a force that caught me off guard, pulling me towards him.
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“I going to make it?” he asked. “I’ve seen the death tolls every day. I’ve responded to people dead in their homes.”
Would I legitimize and explore this? I can teach this skill and learn about it until I am blue in the face, but when you are in that uncertainty, looking at a patient who can only see your eyes … what learned skill would allow me to answer that?
“This virus is so unknown to us, I can tell you that. We cannot predict what will happen to any of our patients but what I can tell you is that you are here with me, and I will try my very best.” He thanked me profusely and told me he had kids. As my eyes filled with tears, I pretended to yawn and walked away.
We are taught to empathize, show a human connection, lean forward, and perhaps place a hand on a shoulder. What can I teach my eyes to do when that is all my patients can see? I can utter words to him, but the eyes are the gate to the soul, as they say. Never have I ever needed my eyes to communicate more than now.
Razia Jayman-Aristide is an internal medicine physician.
Image credit: Shutterstock.com
