A physician struggles with loss

“No one, but no one, is exempt from human suffering,” she said. The infinite words of wisdom, spoken by a woman who had seen her share of heartache and loss, softly alerted me of the potential that exists for pain.

Until my mother’s cancer diagnosis, I had not experienced any great pain, disappointment, or sadness. Of course, there have been many occasions of naturally occurring and expected loss in my life. I lost my front teeth. I lost friendships. I lost toys and dolls and books. I lost love. I lost track of my thoughts. I lost sight of my goals. I lost my faith. I lost my focus.

Never in my life, however, had I lost anything that couldn’t be found or regained. I have always, always known that I would become a doctor for reasons that extend beyond my ability to explain. I believed I would be curing, and helping, and healing. I believed I would always have the answers and the appropriate methods of caring for someone’s heart and soul as well as their mind and body. I was always convinced that becoming a doctor was the most noble, most honorable service one can perform for humanity. I never imagined there would come a day when I couldn’t fix something.

A friend of 10 years tried to kill herself this morning. For over 20 years of her life she has been clinically depressed and experienced severe bouts of major affective disorder. Thus far, no one has had the answer that unlocked the door to her health and well-being. Had she succeeded in her attempt, she would have been a loss to her family, her friends, her co-workers, and the doctors who have been trying their hardest to ease her pain.

My father was the physician who could not save the life of my friend in fourth grade who was hit by a car while playing street-football. He held a 10-year old’s broken body in his arms, knowing he was one of my friends and felt the life slip away from him. At the same time, he too realized his fallibility, his inability to heal everyone, especially those he cared about most. He realized his mortality and mine. And despite the infinite wisdom he has shared with me about the wonderful world of medicine, he simply could not prepare me for the worst that will come of my career.

Having been in practice for five years now, I have seen families cry and given terminal diagnoses. I have been personally aware of the difficulties that lie within this profession. I have seen others suffer. I have seen my father, my hero and role model, become aware of the tenuousness of life and the imperfection of medicine.

The biggest challenge I encounter as a physician is how to face the families I disappoint by my inability to yield to the overpowering stride of death, the incomprehensible loss. I believe I will never learn or become accustomed to presenting someone with a loss that cannot be found or regained. How do you explain to someone that they have lost their mind, or one of their organs, or their memory, or their sight or their sense? How do you tell someone they have lost their ability to walk to brush their teeth? How do you speak the words that explain that someone has lost a child or a loved one?

I may never know the best or most appropriate way, if one exists. Though we may have the ability in some cases to extend or improve life, we as physicians, are never so powerful that we can sustain health and life indefinitely. Happy cases come and go, but the losses linger in our minds and keep us working towards never losing again.

Alexis Hugelmeyer, D.O. is the wife of Michael, mother of Isabella, 5, and Lance, 3, and a family physician whose passion is hands-on manipulation for treatment and healing of any and every type of medical problem. She is the director of community outreach education at Peconic Bay Medical Center and also a private practitioner in Riverhead, where she has founded The Suah Center for Natural Healthcare. A graduate of Villanova University and New York College of Osteopathic Medicine, she lives in Baiting Hollow.

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