2nd Place - GHHS Essay Contest 2021

From a distance I can see it on her face and in her body language - her nitrile gloved hands are clenched in her lap; her arms drawn in close to her sides as if she is trying to make herself smaller and less exposed; and her face shield is fogging up, making it difficult to see the cloth mask covering most of her face. It’s visible she’s nervous to be in a public place, in such close proximity to others, so she must only be doing so out of absolute necessity. This is a face of fear during COVID. I see this same uniform donned by countless others, at grocery stores or gas stations. Today I am seeing it in the doctor’s office as this elderly woman patiently waits for care that was just too important to delay.

The Arnold P. Gold Foundation believes that, “humanism in healthcare is characterized by a respectful and compassionate relationship between physicians…and their patients…it reflects attitudes and behaviors that are sensitive to the values and the cultural and ethnic background of others.” One way I show my respect for my patients is through my diligence in minimizing their risk of COVID-19 exposure. This means I have to refrain from shaking hands when meeting someone for the first time. It also means sitting 6 feet away when interviewing, limiting my time spent on physical exams, disinfecting surfaces, and washing my hands in front of my patients. My hope is that these acts show that I value their health, safety, and the delivery of humanistic care.

But these safety measures are also creating distance and isolation between us. We are no longer placing a comforting hand on a shoulder when it is needed or spending those few extra moments in a patient’s room just to chat. Visits to a clinic used to include pleasant small talk about family and life, but now they have almost completely transitioned to impersonable and tightly scheduled phone calls. In the hospital, multiple layers of PPE just further this alienation between the health care team and patients. Under layers of masks and gowns, only two small eyes can peer out from goggles and face shields. How can we show compassion when we can’t even show a smile?

The first patient I lost to the COVID-19 virus taught me how aspects of humanism in medicine can be lost. The patient was isolated in the ICU for weeks, struggling to breath. To minimize exposure, only one nurse and one physician could visit her room each day. As a medical student, this meant that my only contact was to look at her through a big window as she lay in her hospital bed. I would gesture a thumbs up to ask how she was feeling, and she would try to smile and gesture back. I tried to call her room’s phone, but she was too short of breath to answer my questions. I desperately wished that I could sit at her bedside and offer her my companionship as she fought this virus far away from her family. Then the morning came that I discovered she had taken a turn for the worst overnight and had passed away. I was stunned. Due to hospital protocols this woman had been separated from her family for weeks and now she had suddenly passed with no familiar person at her side. Had we really given this patient the compassionate care that she deserved? Could we have done something more for her in her time of need? Could the isolation and lack of compassionate care have affected the outcome of her illness? It has been shown that compassion and the human connection can be powerful forces in healing. I can’t help but feel that I failed this patient because I could not offer her the humanistic care that she deserved. COVID-19, by changing the way we interact with our patients, has taught me that humanism is embodied in even the smallest acts of kindness that we can offer and that we must always do our best to perform them in even the worst of circumstances.