A life less ordinary

I write this article having contemplated again why my career seems to entail regularly working days, nights and public holidays that ‘normal’ people would spend at home or abroad with their families and loved ones. Added to the politics and legislation that often seem to engulf our profession, it is easy to focus on the negatives that are omnipresent and threatening to the clinician aspiring to practice a more conventional ‘art’ of healthcare. However, if we consider the patients and their relatives whose paths through life have crossed our own, we should be reminded that a profession that allows us to provide care and comfort to those living and those dying is far less prosaic. As healthcare professionals, we see the breadth of human emotion in a way that ‘normal’ people don’t. Each day, our work touches the lives of people experiencing the worst and, occasionally, the best that life can bring. They will spend a lifetime with the repercussions of those moments, and our attitude, behaviour and comments to them at such crucial times will remain etched in their memories. We have the opportunity to influence those memories and we should strive to make them more bearable to live with. ‘Treat others how you would wish to be treated’. A humbling thought, and why our profession is in many ways a privilege. As a medical student, I remember my father showing me an article published in a national newspaper and authored by a doctor. It reminded the reader why healthcare (specifically medicine) has always been and will remain a vocation and not just a ‘job’. It described the raw emotions that we feel and are exposed to during our careers as doctors. The first birth. The first death. Often we feel like intruders and yet to those we treat, our ‘white coats’ can render us invisible. Yet we are not immune to the occasion. We see life and death as outsiders in a way that few others are able to. I remember sitting in a room with a husband and his wife as she quietly passed away from cancer. I wanted to leave. He wanted me to stay. It was their 65th wedding anniversary. Whilst struggling to contain my own emotions, I was struck by the dignity and serenity of that gentle man as he kissed his wife’s forehead and whispered his love during those dying moments. I know how I want to die. There was a time when I would wake at night remembering the heart-wrenching screams of a young mother being taken away as we failed to resuscitate her dead son. The memory does not haunt me. Nor does it scare me. It acts as vivid reminder of how precarious life is and to relish each moment that I spend with my wife and children as if it were my last. Morbid? No. For me, the ‘cup’ is very much half full. Our vocation allows a perspective and contemplation of life (and death) that most ‘normal’ people would never consider. In so doing, it alters the way in which we approach life ourselves. If we allowed a little time to contemplate such matters we would perhaps appreciate that there are fundamentals to our daily ‘chores’ that transcend the political and legal issues so often dwelled upon in our far more literal daily lives. In no way do I wish for my ramblings to appear patronising or pompous. They are simply intended to reflect how easy it is to ignore the impact of what we do on a daily basis – both our clinical and ‘valueadded’ activities, all of which are underpinned by a desire to provide the best for our fellow human beings. This journal thrives on contributions from myriad authors; but most are clinicians, the vast majority of whom have undertaken their submitted work in non-remunerated (and often unrecognised) time. The tangible rewards for such an approach appear to be diminishing with each year, so it is vital that we remember and recognise the less tangible aspects – the human impact. We are taught to be critical and sceptical when reviewing healthcare literature and this is appropriate – to an extent. What we forget is to appreciate the human impact that authors and researchers have made to those around them in trying to better what we do – even if they don’t succeed. The articles in this issue of the journal represent the varied and challenging nature of our vocations. When reading them, I ask you to consider that every action we take in our lives, no matter how small, can make a profound difference to the lives of the patients we treat, and those around us. Don’t succumb to the pressures that prevail; don’t be afraid to care; revel in your humanity. You are amazing in what you do – you just don’t get told enough . . . .