For most of my life, I have believed in the power of words—that if the right words were said in the right order at the right time, they could fix any problem that I encountered. Being a shy person by nature, whenever it was my turn to speak in a conversation, I would stammer and pause in a search for these miraculous words, as if uttering them perfectly would perfect the conversation and deepen my relationship with the other person. If a conversation ever became awkward after I spoke, I would use the rest of the conversation to dwell on what I could have said to reach this perfection. I suppose that is the mentality of most people who want to be doctors: a conviction that any problem can be fixed if you put in enough effort and never give up. I went into hospice with this same mentality, that if I said the right words I could somehow “fix” the patient. Perhaps I couldn’t change the fact that they’re dying, but their attitude, their loneliness, and whatever other problem within my reach.
Soon I discovered that this wasn’t quite the case. The first thing that I noticed about Teresa was that she spoke very softly. This was a blessing in disguise, because I immediately needed to stop talking and listen closely to even hear what she was saying. To make matters more difficult, everything that she said wasn’t necessarily coherent. She would talk about people arguing, saying mean things, hurting her, and hurting themselves. However, there were no signs of physical abuse, so it seemed all of these things were in the past. Her memory and sense of reality were crumbling around her as she aged. This was not something that I could fix by saying the right words: it was a problem that had happened a long time ago, if not completely imagined. Trying to get her to clarify was difficult as well; she seemed uncertain about what she was trying to say herself. I couldn’t fix or change what I didn’t understand, which left only one thing: to listen. To truly be there for her, I had to stop trying to fix her.
I never really understood how necessary this perspective was until I talked to Teresa, and it’s been reinforced throughout the program. During the program’s first prompt, we discussed the two unfixables: aging and death. However, I always thought about aging in terms of physical appearance. People lose so much more than their appearance; they’re not quite the same as before. I was trying to fight against that, that second loss, by controlling the conversation in a way that satisfied my desire to feel like I fixed something. But in doing so, I devalued the person as they were. In my own way, I fell into the trap that Dr. Puri warned of: a desire of wanting things that are impermanent to be permanent.
Dr. Puri’s problem came with a solution that I also employed in my own way. As she focused on doing what she could to alleviate the burden that accompanied the inevitable transition from life to death, I focused on doing what I could to bring comfort to Teresa. I conversed with her without seeking clarification, but just to listen. I let the conversation go off on tangents that I didn’t understand because I knew in this way she felt heard rather than perceived as a problem to be solved. As a doctor, I hope to do the same: listen to my patients and accept the moment that I have reached an unfixable. Thanks to this program, I know that it’s okay to let go when that time is reached, as it will be for everyone.