The first solo visit I had with Hannah*, I couldn’t get a word in. Literally. It was a Saturday morning and, after some confused wandering through the facility’s winding halls, I arrived at the open door of my patient. She was napping, or at least I thought she had been when I arrived. As is usually the case when I visit a patient for the first time, I needed some time to gather up the courage to come in, disrupt the reverie, and make a good impression. After a few minutes, I strode through her door and gave a cheerful “hello! My name is…”.
Hannah didn’t even look at me. Embarrassed, I gave it another go while inching closer to her reclining chair, again receiving no response. Finally, standing beside her, I gave it another go, and gave her a bit of a fright. I tried to introduce myself a few times, but only got confused and annoyed stares. It became clear that Hannah couldn’t hear me very well. I spoke to her attending nurse, and was reassured that I just needed to speak up and she would hear fine. I tried a few more times, but still could barely get anything across to her. Finally, seeing that my presence was starting to stress the patient, I gave an animated wave good bye and backed out the door. By all measures, a pretty bad first visit.
Something about the quality of my voice (pitch? Timbre?) was making it really hard for my patient to hear me properly. After the difficulty of the first visit, I felt a little unenthusiastic about returning. It was obvious that I had been more of an annoyance than a help to Hannah. Nevertheless, I knew that a second attempt was necessary before I gave up on my assignment. So, the week after, I trudged back to Hannah’s room and gave it another go. This time, I made a conscious, embarrassing effort to speak differently – loudly, slowly, and at a higher pitch. It was awkward to think about the nurse’s deck just a few feet away hearing my words, but the payoff was immediate. Hannah heard me much better, and I got a second chance to introduce myself and get to know her.
Over the course of the semester, I had the opportunity to visit Hannah, meet her daughter, and hear about her life. Every time, I took an extra minute to prepare a loud, clear speaking voice. It was awkward, and not the kind of training I was expecting to be doing as a hospice volunteer, but it helped cement the importance of rounded commitment to the job as a caregiver. I have a duty to work to my patients benefit, and sometimes that can push me out of a comfort zone. Had I chosen to get reassigned to someone who could hear me better, I would have been telling myself that personal comfort and ease comes first. To have a meaningful impact in this line of work, that cannot always be the case. Working through medical school, residency, and even college courses, it is easy to develop a ‘me first’ mindset. Stress and deadlines can degrade priorities outside of your own lofty goals. This year, I learned that it takes some effort to turn around and take stock of how my journey as a future doctor is not one that I embark alone, and is not one that ends with helping others. Through my actions, I can create a path that enables me to meaningfully support those around me, sick and healthy.