Please Read the Patient Letter
Please accept my apologies for our impromptu meeting tonight. To have ended up at my emergency room already means that you’ve had a bad day, if not the worst day of your life. I appreciate you inviting me to be a part of your special day.
Please don’t take my apparent nervousness personally. I just comforted a young girl who had just learned that her mother had died in a car crash. I’m still trying to rescue her dad, and the operating room will page me as soon as they know whether or not they were able to do so. It’s possible that I’ll have to leave the room to answer the phone.
I and my team are prepared to attend to your needs. In order to look out for you, we may have to deny your requests on occasion. I care about you so much that I won’t even feed you a sandwich before sending you to have your appendix removed. Because I care about you, I won’t give you any more pain medication.
Our concern for you is sincere, and I want you to know that I study hard to learn as much as I can about any illnesses you may be suffering from. I stay abreast of the topics that have brought you to consult with me by listening to podcasts, attending conferences, reading papers, and doing research. If I can’t pinpoint the origin of your abdominal pain after 10 years, it’s probably not going to kill you any time soon.
Knowing even a small something about your medical background will be really helpful. The data you provide is crucial to ensuring your security.
Searching the Internet for your symptoms will usually just make you more worried. Cancerous cells are quite uncommon in a freckle. It has been ruled out that you have either hemochromatosis or acute intermittent porphyria.
I applaud your desire to better understand your body; if you need recommendations for credible resources, let me know.
Just outside your door, you might overhear us having a good time. If you accidentally shot yourself in the head with a nail gun, we might make fun of you, but we’ll do it in your room. You might be confused by our ability to find humour in your suffering, but know that while this is a terrible day for you, it’s just another day for us; those who work in the ER have the sickest sense of gallows humour you’ve ever seen. If you don’t have a sense of humour, working here will destroy you.
I’m going to be concerned about you and pray for you once you leave here tonight. Maybe I’ll even share a funny story or two or how you made me grin with my husband, but I won’t mention your name since I respect your privacy. Also, fret. And/or swear under your breath. Or cry. The weight of someone else’s concern for you can be too much to bear at times.
The term “compassion fatigue” was coined by psychologists. I’ve found that giving to those in need and constantly being on the receiving end of their suffering has left me feeling depleted. It’s possible that I could lose my capacity to care, so I need to figure out how to replenish it.
I pray that we have helped you feel somewhat relieved, less frightened, or better able to handle the issues that necessitated your visit to the emergency room. If you’re going somewhere after this, please be safe and sober-up before getting behind the wheel. Tonight is a busy night, and we can wait for your patronage.