Listening for Heart Sounds
...grief drowned my prior "shoulds" and "musts," allowing me to hear something new...
After years of hematology specialty training, the first specialty I began practicing was and remains hospice and palliative medicine. It was not part of my fellowship curriculum. I happened upon it as a result of my own father's death which occurred 10 days after my fellowship formally ended. Not because his experience opened my eyes to end-of-life care. It didn't. Despite being a physician, I lacked all the skills and knowledge that would have made it possible for me to become an effective end-of-life healthcare advocate for my father. As a result, his minimal engagement with hospice added to and reinforced the persistent underutilization of the benefit. In the wake of my father’s death, I stopped everything, including the practice of medicine. The sea of grief drowned my prior "shoulds" and "musts," allowing me to hear something new. Something that had me begin to reconsider a life filled with "what ifs" and "I wonders."
Put more simply, I began listening to the sounds of my own heart.
In so doing, I discovered a regular convening of physicians who enjoyed discussing the meaning in the practice of medicine. A single word prompt was selected to initiate each conversation. The word being discussed at my first meeting felt divinely inspired: Gratitude.
The session began with each of us going around the circle, stating our name, our specialty and location of practice. I was seated next to an older gentleman, white mustache and beard covering his face, with a mop of fuzzy white hair on top. He introduced himself as a hospice medical director. At the end of the evening, I made my way around the group asking each to share a bit more about what they actually did as a "medical counselor" or "holistic practitioner" or "hospice medical director."
"My father was under the care of hospice for four days," I said to the white-haired gentleman, "yet I still have no idea what it is you actually do."
"That's nice," he replied with a warm and genuine smile before walking away.
One month later, the same thing happened. We re-introduced ourselves. I was sitting in the same spot on the couch, this time across from the white-haired doctor who was sitting in an armchair. We discussed a single word: Grief. At the end of the night, I walked up to the same gentleman and said, "I still have no idea what it is you do." He smiled the same warm smile, reached for his hat and headed for the door.
After the conclusion of my third month's meeting, I re-approached the physician the same way. This time, he gave me a different answer.
"You clearly have a hospice heart. We should talk."
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