It is September 19, 2022. I am one month into my first year of medical school, yet it feels like I’ve already crammed enough information in my brain to last a lifetime. Come graduation time, I will likely have lost clarity on much of the minutiae of my first year. I won’t recall how I awkwardly stumbled over my words as I practiced my first patient presentation, or how nervous I felt attaching a scalpel blade on the first day of anatomy lab. I certainly will need a refresher on the steps of the Krebs Cycle, and is cardiotoxicity a side effect of tamoxifen or trastuzumab?
However, I might remember the drive I took to class this morning. I was stopped in traffic at a red light near Primary Children’s Hospital when I heard an intense, familiar whirring sound that reverberated in my chest. I immediately turned my head to see the LifeFlight helicopter land on the roof of the pediatric Emergency Department. I felt that recognizable clench in my throat, adrenaline in my limbs, and tightness at the corners of my mouth that I always experience when I see that helicopter. Six months ago, I remember hearing that same hum of the LifeFlight’s propellers descend towards the hospital roof as I sat below in the ED social worker’s room. My shirt was stained with tears and my hands trembled. I held my siblings, William and Sarah, close. That flight was carrying our youngest brother, Henry. About half an hour prior, an Alta Ski Area police officer called to inform me that Henry had been in a serious ski accident and that I needed to get to Primary Children’s Hospital immediately. My parents were out of town, and I was needed as the responsible adult. I don’t have words to describe the pain I felt as the pediatric anesthesiologist explained that despite 90 minutes of intense resuscitation, Henry had died.
He was fourteen years old- a beautiful cellist, a talented tennis player, an adventurous mountain biker, and an exceptional student with a sweet-natured goodness about him that made him the glue of our family. Losing Henry is losing a piece of myself—my life, my identity as a sister, and my future as a medical student changed the moment he died. Sitting with Henry’s still-warm body in the trauma bay of Primary Children’s Emergency Department, I never wanted to enter a hospital again. I doubted that I would have the resilience and capacity to succeed in medical school under the weight of such immense grief.
I was in such bright spirits this morning before I saw LifeFlight land. I worked so hard to memorize the steps of muscle contraction and was feeling confident to be quizzed on it this afternoon in class. I’d done well on my assignments all week and was feeling invigorated and eager to tackle another day of learning. The instant I saw the helicopter descend, the resolve and strength that I’d enjoyed this morning immediately crumbled. I felt transported back to the social workroom, and I felt a flood of the same emotions I experienced when Henry died. I wondered if this patient’s family was also waiting with the social worker below, and I hoped more than anything that the child was okay.
I struggled to regain my composure before walking into class, flooded with self-doubt about my place in medicine. If every LifeFlight prompts such pain, can I ever be successful working in healthcare, responding effectively to trauma, emergency, and death?
It is February 20, 2023. I am now approaching the end of my first year of medical school. It has been a full year since Henry’s accident. I still feel the grief, a steady presence through each moment. Navigating tragedy in my own life has brought me in tune with the aches of those around me—classmates who have lost parents, mentors who have lost children, and neighbors who have lost loved ones. I have come to understand grief as a friend—a lifeline that fosters connection to the humanity of another person. From grief sprouts a greater empathy, compassion, and sensitivity. It connects me to Henry, too. I have felt this pain and I can now see it in others. Grief is pervasive in medicine. Loss is intrinsically intertwined with the effort to heal.
I keep a photo of Henry tucked into the back of my student ID badge—the last school photo he took. I see a bit of him in every patient I meet. I miss him profoundly. Glancing down at my lanyard throughout the day, it serves as a reminder not to harden myself against the heaviness of loss, but rather use it to fuel my sincere commitment to providing healing, connection, and comfort for those in my care. This is the place of grief in medicine.