“When seeking out on a Journey, do not seek out the advice from those who have never left home.”

RUMI

This is a tough entry for me. Having realized that, I know that I want to write about it so here it goes.

I have been working as a palliative care doctor in times of COVID for the last year now. I have seen it all. Patients dying alone in ICUs. Families having to say good bye via phone, skype, facetime and teams (what else am I missing here?). Oh yeah. Families saying good bye via nothing at all. This bizarre emptiness that we don’t even understand how to process.

I have helped hundreds of people process their emotions. Hold space for them. Hear them out when they cry, let them be when they are being quiet on the other side of the phone (or are they still on mute?). I can tell them, I understand what they are going through.

I mean I theoretically understand it, but do I really?

What does it mean to lose someone like this? How does it feel when you know your loved one died in a hospital setting without any face they recognize. Knowing their time is short. Knowing well that they may be dying soon.

I have a podcast as some of you may know. I have been dragging my feet doing an episode about “Death in Times of COVID”. It is not from lack of trying. I have recorded 3 different episodes and was just not sure which one would be the best to showcase the devastation of what it means to lose your loved one in these unprecedented situations.

Well, I did not have to grasp for anything more organically curated than what happened to me last week.

As we were all getting excited to celebrate the arrival of the Persian New Year, we learned that my uncle had died suddenly alone in the hospital by a seemingly out of nowhere diagnosis of COVID.

I wish I still had the problem of not knowing how it feels to be on the other side. But if I had to be honest, it is the shared human experiences like this one which adds depth to who we are and how we show up in our lives. Especially as physicians caring for dying patients, but in general, too.

As I am pretty open with what happens with my life, I decided to share it with the social media communities that I frequent. There were some short expletives aimed at COVID and a picture of my uncle as I remember him long ago. There were 100s of outpouring of condolences. So kind. So helpful. As days passed and I shared a bit more when I was good and ready to put my emotions into words, I noticed a level of discomfort and almost like a feeling of ‘push back’.

People were wanting to know, either via a text or direct message, if I was ok. Was I still upset about my uncle or was it something else?

Then there were true good intention questions muddying the water coming through like:

At least he didn’t get intubated.

Good thing he could say goodbye.

How old was he? (as in being older made it a bit ok)

Or other well meaning questions like:

Was he vaccinated? Did he have any underlying disease? Who did he get it from?

I was in a daze. Does it matter? Who are these questions for? For my peace of mind or theirs. It made me think about something that is a pet peeve of mine. Our obsession to make everyone around us feel better already.

We are uncomfortable with their discomfort. We can’t just sit in that discomfort, so even though we are not slightly affected by this news, we want to feel better by knowing others are not suffering.

That is not taking away other people’s suffering: it is taking away our own.

It may seem selfless, but it is the ultimate in selfishness. We do not see it.

I probably do it, too. It is just not noticeable when I do it, since we are all full of good intentions, so being on the receiving end was a bit jarring.

People grieve at different paces from one another. Not the wrong pace. Their own pace. Trying to yank them from where they are sitting in their grief to a position that feels good for us is like trying to pull someone out of their denial of a terminal diagnosis. It may make us feel better, but it doesn’t change them. If anything, it will feel like pulling the rug from underneath them.

Yes, you are probably going to die in the next three months.

Enjoy the free fall!

Sometimes denial is a coping mechanism that is helping the terminally ill patients manage their mind around the terrible hand life had dealt them. They will get to their reality of imminent end when they are good and ready. Pulling them toward their grim reality, if that is not the road they like to be taking, may help you, but it doesn’t help them.

So take a deep breath. When you see loved ones struggling, either because of their new diagnosis or that of someone else’s, know that it is never about you and it is always about them. You simply don’t know.

So you ask.

You may validate their feelings. You may acknowledge their feelings.

You should never suggest: It will get better.

Even if it will, they are not in that state of mind, those words hurt more than they help.

With so much love and Aloha to every single one of you who has lost a loved one in a setting that you could not be with them at the end.