Status post: On mortality
I am learning a lot of things in medical school, and last weekend I added another to the list: mortality. I experienced a dreaded first for every medical student: my first patient death.
It was a fetus that died in utero — a baby boy who had passed before I even got to hold him, before I even got to put him in his mother’s arms.
Anyone’s death would have crushed me, but a child? A baby? It was devastating.
I struggled to maintain my professionalism as we took the necessary measurements: length and weight, and head, chest, and abdominal circumference. We bagged the placenta to give it to Pathology. After all of that, I was tasked to bring the baby to his mother, so she could grieve. I wrapped him in a piece of cloth. I could hardly look at him. I think my hands may have been shaking. At less than 1,200 grams, he was a small thing. So light, yet so heavy a burden.
The mom stared at the bundle in my arms and feebly asked about the sex: “Lalaki o babae?” I whispered that it was a boy, and she turned away, tears dripping from her cheeks. “Pangalan niya kung lalaki dapat Jonas.” His name would have been Jonas. I was silent, absorbing that information, letting her be alone with her thoughts for a while. Then I asked if she wanted to hold him, and she said yes. So I transferred him — Jonas — to his mother’s arms. She stared at him, his tiny face, already so well formed, so lifelike. She touched his little hand, traced his little fingers, then gripped my hand as she wept over her baby. She apologized to him over and over: “Sorry, anak. Di ko inakala.” Then she whispered her apologies again minutes later, this time to me, saying she couldn’t take it anymore. She begged me to take him away.
All that time I stood there, at a loss, not knowing what to say and desperate in knowing there was nothing, really, that I could do. So I stayed with her until she asked me to go. Two years of undergraduate study and two years of medical school added up to four years of grueling study, and still there was nothing I could do except be there.
Offer her a piece of tissue. Apologize. Sympathize. Hold her hand. Her baby.
Take him away when she couldn’t look at him anymore. Back away, stemming my own tears, before apologizing one more time.
I was all too happy to celebrate the many births I witnessed that weekend. Each infant I saw brought a smile to my face. Indubitably, obviously, it is more enjoyable to celebrate life. But I am learning that it is equally important to know how to be there, and to comfort the grieving, in death.
Baby boy Jonas, it was my profound privilege to hold you for a little while. I learn something from all my patients — and to all my patients, I am so grateful — but it is from you that I learned the most this year.
May you rest in peace.
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Mandy Esquivel, 22, is an Intarmed student, University of the Philippines College of Medicine
