“Will I ever get better, Andrew?” my mother asked. She laid
in bed, too weak to sit up, unable to eat, her myelofibrosis in the final
stages of its relentless course. Her question stunned me – did she not know she
was dying? How could she not? Was she in complete denial? Was she simply
grasping for a final chance at hope when all seemed hopeless? Reality quickly
set in, she did not know or at least fully comprehend, that she was dying, this
despite the countless doctor’s visits, multiple hospitalizations, surgeries,
failed treatments, and unrelenting blood transfusions.
The answer was all too simple to me, poor communication. Throughout
the nearly year - long course of her aggressive disease, her Hematologist had
not taken the time to speak truth to her nor to the rest of my family. She was
“too busy” to return calls or take the time in her office to address their
growing concerns and fears. With each hospitalization and failed treatment, increasing
frustration and anger grew.
I became my mother’s
doctor in the sense that my family sought me for unanswered questions and decisions
that needed to be made. I was no longer her son which was all I wanted to be. I
did not want to be her doctor. I only wanted to be her son and love her through
this. But the questions came, the decisions had to be made, and my family had
to be helped. It was a terrible time and it only became worse.
I began weekly trips
to Alabama, leaving Friday at noon and returning late Sunday, a 7 ½ hour drive
each way, so I could see her, support my family, and address the issues that
inevitably came up. This went on for 6 months, missing only those weekends I
was on call. My full time private practice continued as did the hospital calls
(before we had Hospitalists). In addition, I was President of Kernodle Clinic
and I had a rebellious teenager. It had become worse.
Then one weekend, as I sat on the edge of her bed, she asked
the question. With a quivering voice and tearing eyes, I told her the truth,
“No Mama, you won’t get better.” I could not bring myself to tell her she would
most likely die in a few days. She looked at me, rolled on her side, closed her
eyes and said her final words to me, “I love you, Andrew.”
I was angry. Angry that I had to speak those words to her.
Angry that I could not be just her son. Angry at that poor excuse of a physician who
couldn’t take the time to speak words of truth, support, and comfort to my
mother and family. I went upstairs to my room, closed the door and cried. I
cried in anger, in frustration, in grief, and for the lost opportunity to simply
be her son. My sister came up, we held each other, and I cried more. My mother
died 2 days later. She was 66.
Have you had to
assume the role of physician within your family? If so, are we surprised? Our
families love us, they trust us, and we understand the language of medicine.
The physician side of us wants to help, wants to make things better, and wants
to prevent suffering. Being a physician is hard enough without having to take
on this heavy responsibility. There comes a time, when a health crisis hits our
family, we should be able to be the son, the daughter, the husband, the wife,
the mother, the father, not the physician. My mother needed her son, her little
boy, not her son the doctor. I should have drawn a line in the sand but I did
not. If and when your turn comes, draw that line, make that boundary, and don’t
cross it.
I grieve the missed opportunity to have simply loved her as
a son in her final days. I tried to do that but circumstances prevented it.
Don’t let that happen to you. And don’t become that physician who sees medicine
only as a job instead of a calling; a profession where compassion, caring, and
relationships make a difference in the lives of patients and their families. My
mother deserved such a physician.
Andy Lamb
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