When I was a medical student several years ago, I saw someone die in front of me for the first time. My classmate and I weren’t responsible for the patients; we only observed and made additional reports for our studies. The following day, we discussed the disease’s course, the medicines, prevention, and related topics. Most of the things we talked about were theoretical to help avoid future deaths like the one we had witnessed. That experience seemed to change something within me, but I wasn’t sure what was happening at the time.
As I followed the doctors at the hospital, I witnessed more and more situations involving death, particularly when working in the emergency unit. I was amazed by how responsive the doctors, residents, nurses, and other staff members were. In the emergency unit, we saw incidents ranging from patients’ admission in critical condition to their passing. We followed every stage of their journey. It taught me about the importance of holding on to hope while also learning to let go. Due to a shortage of medical workers, doctors seemed to have to do everything, from diagnosing the patient to breaking bad news to their family. They knew the patient’s condition best, which made it their responsibility. After that, they had to move on to care for other critically ill patients, and this cycle would continue for eight hours in one shift. It was a challenging environment, and doctors are humans with many emotions. I wondered if they felt emotional, and if so, why did it seem like they didn’t have enough time to process their grief properly? Did they have enough support to deal with the trauma they faced every day? I questioned whether it was a good working environment. During medical school, we had many seniors who taught us to be empathetic to our patients, but it was still uncommon to be reminded to show empathy and gentleness towards ourselves as well.
Last year, I worked in a COVID-19 hospital and encountered a woman with the virus whose oxygen saturation was alarmingly low at only 50 percent. Unfortunately, due to overcapacity, there was no ventilator available. The patient received oxygen but not with a ventilator. During my shift, I sat next to her, encouraging her to hold on while coordinating with other hospitals for referrals, contacting hospitals in and outside the city to check for available rooms with ventilators, monitoring her condition, and attempting to contact her family to inform them of her state. Every day, we had to determine which patients could receive ventilators and ICU beds. We presented morning reports to provide the best possible care for patients. However, once again, no one asked us how we felt, how we coped with the trauma, and how we could continue our lives after losing a patient. I hope that the medical education system will become more conscious of the trauma that doctors face daily and promote greater awareness not only for patients and their families but also for us doctors.
Deisha Laksmitha Ayomi is a physician in Finland.
