Oh I misinterpreted The Look at first. The Look I was thinking about was the desperate pleading look you get when you are walking out the door and hear, “Oh, and just one more thing…” Usually a request for opioids or benzos. I have always described you as the professional’s doc since getting to know you here; what I see now is the every person’s doc. What a gift your patients have in you.
Your opening comments resonated deeply with me. I spent 49 years working as a hematologist/oncologist and for most of that time in a large military hospital. I still miss the camaraderie of working with outstanding colleagues (in all departments), as well as the helpful and dedicated nurses, pharmacists, and hospital staff. "The Look" from patients and family members was relatively common in the Oncology Clinic as they came to understand that life as they previously knew it would be drastically different. I was blessed that my patients allowed me to participate in their often very difficult journey. I cannot remember a time when I didn’t enjoy going to work and do miss the work I did but generally don’t miss "The Look".
Writing here as a non-medical person, I just want to thank you for this essay. I am the spouse of a man with terminal lung cancer, and am actively going through the changing of our relationship and experiencing a variety of emotions including guilt. You helped put words to it all and made feel a little bit more normal.
I do not know if the listen option is new but I hit the listen button to hear Adam's post. Wow. Very powerful. You can still hear the pain in his voice describing "the look". I would definitely agree with the other commenters about how fortunate to be a patient of Dr Cifu.
What an amazing job we have. Thank you for always keeping me in touch with the human meaning of the work we do, even is I often struggle to keep it in perspective amidst the competing demands of training (almost done!!), marriage, job hunting, and being a father to a passel of young kids (never done).
Even though you will not miss “the look”, I suspect that its presence (or at least your recognition of its presence) is inextricably related to the possibility of human connection that gives our work such meaning.
There were many patients whom I saw once or twice per year when I was a practicing ophthalmologist. For me, The Look was the face of a woman who had lost her husband within the previous year. I knew upon entering the room that she had lost her husband. Her face would be drained, pale, and flat. It seemed to take 1-2 years for that look to fade. I did not notice this with men who had lost their wives. They were sad, but not as physically affected by their loss.
Another visual sign to me was embodied by a gentlemanly 90 year old Italian immigrant, who always wore a suit and tie to the appointment and got out of the chair to greet me when I entered the room. One day, I entered the room and, while he was still in suit and tie, he did not get out of the chair to greet me. I was immediately struck by that, and I felt that he would not be around next year for his visit. This turned out to be the case.
Thank you for capturing in eloquence my recent thoughts and musings about this very topic. As a nurse and also a daughter of aging parents, this really hits home. I'm sure you know it, but you're a doctor's doctor. Blessings!
Ah, me. How often I wore The Look as a caregiver for an aging parent, and how well I now recognize it in others, both children and spouses. As if the ground were moving beneath your feet, a slow-mo earthquake.
Wow. Very well put. The Look Always represents a dramatic change in someone’s life where independence is significantly lost and therefore control of one’s own life choices. Spouses or children are having to make choices for their loved one. And make choices for themselves but in relation to their loved one’s needs. Very stressful.
As caregivers ourselves, we (health caregivers) are included in this equation.
Empathy is a gift to the patient and to the doctor as long as it doesn’t cloud our judgement. It’s necessary in our profession even though the price we pay for it can sometimes be high. Somebody said that sorrow is the price we pay for having loved (or cared I would add). I certainly would choose you as my and my loved one’s physician dr Cifu :-)
Oh I misinterpreted The Look at first. The Look I was thinking about was the desperate pleading look you get when you are walking out the door and hear, “Oh, and just one more thing…” Usually a request for opioids or benzos. I have always described you as the professional’s doc since getting to know you here; what I see now is the every person’s doc. What a gift your patients have in you.
Your opening comments resonated deeply with me. I spent 49 years working as a hematologist/oncologist and for most of that time in a large military hospital. I still miss the camaraderie of working with outstanding colleagues (in all departments), as well as the helpful and dedicated nurses, pharmacists, and hospital staff. "The Look" from patients and family members was relatively common in the Oncology Clinic as they came to understand that life as they previously knew it would be drastically different. I was blessed that my patients allowed me to participate in their often very difficult journey. I cannot remember a time when I didn’t enjoy going to work and do miss the work I did but generally don’t miss "The Look".
I have just retired, and the first paragraph is the best explanation of how it feels.
Writing here as a non-medical person, I just want to thank you for this essay. I am the spouse of a man with terminal lung cancer, and am actively going through the changing of our relationship and experiencing a variety of emotions including guilt. You helped put words to it all and made feel a little bit more normal.
Thank you, and I am so sorry. Good luck with the journey. Hugs.
Adam
I do not know if the listen option is new but I hit the listen button to hear Adam's post. Wow. Very powerful. You can still hear the pain in his voice describing "the look". I would definitely agree with the other commenters about how fortunate to be a patient of Dr Cifu.
I recorded all the "reflections." I like doing it (and it helps me with the proofreading).
This is a beautiful essay. Thank you.
What an amazing job we have. Thank you for always keeping me in touch with the human meaning of the work we do, even is I often struggle to keep it in perspective amidst the competing demands of training (almost done!!), marriage, job hunting, and being a father to a passel of young kids (never done).
Even though you will not miss “the look”, I suspect that its presence (or at least your recognition of its presence) is inextricably related to the possibility of human connection that gives our work such meaning.
There were many patients whom I saw once or twice per year when I was a practicing ophthalmologist. For me, The Look was the face of a woman who had lost her husband within the previous year. I knew upon entering the room that she had lost her husband. Her face would be drained, pale, and flat. It seemed to take 1-2 years for that look to fade. I did not notice this with men who had lost their wives. They were sad, but not as physically affected by their loss.
Another visual sign to me was embodied by a gentlemanly 90 year old Italian immigrant, who always wore a suit and tie to the appointment and got out of the chair to greet me when I entered the room. One day, I entered the room and, while he was still in suit and tie, he did not get out of the chair to greet me. I was immediately struck by that, and I felt that he would not be around next year for his visit. This turned out to be the case.
Learning those signs you can see from the door are so important, right?
Thank you for capturing in eloquence my recent thoughts and musings about this very topic. As a nurse and also a daughter of aging parents, this really hits home. I'm sure you know it, but you're a doctor's doctor. Blessings!
Thank you.
Adam
Too true. Thank you
Ah, me. How often I wore The Look as a caregiver for an aging parent, and how well I now recognize it in others, both children and spouses. As if the ground were moving beneath your feet, a slow-mo earthquake.
Wow. Very well put. The Look Always represents a dramatic change in someone’s life where independence is significantly lost and therefore control of one’s own life choices. Spouses or children are having to make choices for their loved one. And make choices for themselves but in relation to their loved one’s needs. Very stressful.
As caregivers ourselves, we (health caregivers) are included in this equation.
Thanks for a very relevant Reflection.
YIkers! What an awful story.
You've articulated the situation so well. The change is so sudden it induces whiplash in one's understanding of the world.
Empathy is a gift to the patient and to the doctor as long as it doesn’t cloud our judgement. It’s necessary in our profession even though the price we pay for it can sometimes be high. Somebody said that sorrow is the price we pay for having loved (or cared I would add). I certainly would choose you as my and my loved one’s physician dr Cifu :-)