Waiting...

Little tiny hospital, almost 50% of our beds being used by patients waiting for mental health or long term care beds. 

Colleague support

When I divulge to a colleague that I'm struggling, and their answer is "just get it done, that's ridiculous", I may not have found my new home yet. 

Confidence

My frail patient sat at her dining room table as I came in to see her on house call day. 

She wears a bib like the ones we use in hospital, brown, ugly plaid. Her husband calls it her cape. I imagine her as a super hero, bib flowing behind her as she flies through the air. 

Her hands tremble as she works on her bun. She accidentally drops her finger in the butter and acts as though it didn't happen, discreetly licking her hand when I'm looking down. 

She is as frail as I would expect for someone who spent so many months in hospital and came close to dying more than once. Hunched over, looking up at me though our faces are on the same level. In her youth she was an independent, vibrant school teacher. What a change this must be for her when she looks in the mirror. 

After our check in and a brief physical exam, I ask the question I always ask, "is there anything else I can do to make things better for you?"

My patient surprised me by whispering, "give me my confidence back?"

I wish I could bottle up confidence and sprinkle it over my patients like holy water. That's precisely the intervention so many of them could use but the CDC doesn't have it available yet. 

We discuss how far she's come since her release from hospital. How difficult it is to be in a new home in a new town. How as her strength comes back with physiotherapy, so will her confidence. 

I stop and consider the last time I was truly confident. I think of when I was 5 years old and able to do absolutely anything. With my new shoes I could run faster than Superman. My body was perfect and I was the strongest person I knew. How does one prescribe "be a 5 year old" to an octogenarian?

Then I remember the art group run locally. They laugh and play and generally enjoy themselves. Everyone leaves the group feeling like they can take on the world. Their pain diminishes. They make friends of all ages and diagnoses. They heal. They help each other. 

As I talk about the art group, I see my patient's back straighten, just a tiny amount as she imagines making a giant colourful mess like she did when she was 5.