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Sunday, February 28, 1999 By Barbara Cloud, Post-Gazette Columnist
When more than one person remarks that you seem a bit down, you probably are.
We think we can hide feelings, but when you write a weekly column, it often creeps in. No hiding.
Well, yes, I have been sad. I appreciate the concern. As a columnist I sit down and write what I am feeling. I can't always be glad; I can't always be sad.
Often I am mad. Two articles I read recently hit me where I live. At least where I have lived in past months.
I have been in a sad place since my only sister died. Natural sadness is prolonged because I am also mad.
She passed away last June, but emptying her house, selling it, wrapping up loose ends, getting through a first holiday season without her have kept my emotions on a seesaw.
Unlike clowns who put on a happy face even when they are blue, columnists tend to bare all as fingers fly over computer keys and the thoughts transfer to the screen in printed words.
To lose B.J. has its own distinct pain. We all lose people we love. I've lost my parents and favorite relatives, an early love when he was just 20, many friends and several pets, which we know become family. We love them, too. We survive somehow. We also change.
So, why am I still mad?
One reason was clearly identified in a personal reflection by Dr. Paul A. Carson, who practices internal medicine in the North Hills. It appeared in the Post-Gazette.
He said losing his mother made him rethink his role as a doctor.
Because he is a doctor, his discovery, at least to me, was even more dramatic. And it hit home.
He and his family were disquieted after his mother's death because of the lack of communication between medical professionals and his family.
She had the best medical care possible heading into surgery. That wasn't it.
No condolence. No phone call, no explanation of the sad outcome of her surgery from her doctors. Silence.
That was the disquieting note. The patient dies. Deal with it. The doctor's role ends.
When my mother had surgery for a brain tumor almost 24 years ago, the surgeon never met with my father, my sister or me. He never came to us in the waiting room after the surgery. He never called. I don't even know what he looked like, although I have never forgotten his name.
More recently, while I grieved and fought the terrible responsibility of carrying out my sister's living will, especially her final hours when we knew she would not make it through the day, I never heard from her doctor. Not that day. Nor since.
Should those left to grieve expect some act of compassion from a doctor?
A neurological report, especially a very bad prognosis, left on an answering machine is no way to communicate the news that the patient will probably die.
I had a similar experience at another hospital and with other doctors, when my sister was being treated almost two years ago. I begged for meetings with them and was promised we would, of course, all sit down and discuss the prognosis. She was discharged. There was no meeting.
I should have ranted and raved. I was too sad to do so.
I should not have needed to rant and rave.
Now, months later, I seem to be ranting. I can't help it.
The other article I took to heart, written by Diana Block, dealt with the dilemma we face carrying out a loved one's living will.
It's not an easy thing, especially if you must do it alone. It never leaves your mind.
I have a living will. It seems so easy to sit down with a lawyer and put down all the right words. But for the person left to interpret the words, it can be agonizing. And it was for me.
So, yes, sadness has been lingering, and it creeps in from time to time. It will get better. It has. Life goes on.
I don't want to criticize a profession that allows for medical miracles a small-town doctor like my late father would only have dreamed of 50 years ago.
But how about this miracle?
What about transplants of compassion to those physicians whose hearts are sadly lacking?
There's no technology involved. No "procedure." They wouldn't even need a donor.
Just a change of heart.
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