The lockdown journal: On emotions and work

 As a toddler, I spent most of my time sitting in my mother's clinic. I neither had daycare nor doting grandparents who babysat me, and as a result, my mom juggled between her full time job and me. One of the first people I met in her practice was this woman with late stage esophageal cancer. I use the term 'met' rather loosely, because I never actually saw her. The first thing my Mom taught me before bringing me into the clinic was that I should never express revulsion at a human being's pain and suffering, no matter how horrible it looked or smelled. She said that if at any time I reacted or made a face, I wouldn't be allowed in to her clinic anymore. I complied. But somehow, she didn't trust me to see this cancer patient with half her food tract eaten away and not react. So anytime this patient made in appearance, I would be shooed inside. After she left, I would ask my Mom in curiosity: What was wrong with her? Would she get well again? Did she have family? My Mom gave me the honest unvarnished truth- that it was too late for her to get well, but that medicine could still alleviate some of her pain. This lady kept regularly visiting for more than 2 years, until one day, after she left, my Mom broke down and wept. 

I asked her why. She told me: She has stopped eating and is barely able to ingest liquids. She came to say goodbye to me. She thanked me, saying that many other doctors refused to touch her or dress her wounds. She told me that I always made her feel more of a human being than a mass of wounded flesh. I am heartbroken that there is nothing more I can do to help.

That day, I cried with my Mom. I cried over a woman I didn't know the name of. A woman I knew nothing about, except the fact that she was dying. Thus began my journey of empathizing with strangers. Every now and then, my Mom would grieve- over death, a terminal illness or a grave diagnosis. I would grieve with her, feeling so intensely the loss of this person I had nothing in common with, except that we were both human beings.

But the difference between my Mom and I was this: She would cry at lunch over a patient's death, refusing food, but she would be back at her clinic by 5, working away like nothing had happened. It was like this magical switch flipped in her head. But me, I would mope around morosely, going through the same piece of news and the same person, over and over again. I would feel helpless that I couldn't change anything. It would take me at least a day to get back to normal, sometimes even more. As I grew older, I consciously looked for ways to help, and engaging in some of those made me feel a little better. 

I was never prepared to hear stories of grief on a daily basis though. It was one of the reasons I didn't become a doctor, but the pandemic was not something I had anticipated. Now, everyday, someone I know tells me about how they lost a friend or a relative. Someone tells me about how their parents are gravely ill, and in dire need of a hospital bed or oxygen. The news is full of agonizing tales. I have wept so many times in this period, but my tears accomplish nothing.

And on the other side, I have this harsh reality to confront: Life goes on. While I mourn and grieve, I have assignments to finish, work to be done, papers to be read, and chores to get over with. Sure, I can take a few hours off when I'm really overwhelmed, but nothing more than that, or I will be in trouble. How can I pretend that everything is normal and work? How can I turn a blind eye to all the people who are struggling? 

What I have realized is that I must get more adept at flipping that switch. At what is called compartmentalizing. While talking to a friend and being there for them is important, my long term success at work is also equally important. Just as I need to be fully present while listening to someone and comforting them, I also need to be fully present at work. Maybe one thing that can help is cutting myself off from all news and media, everything except emergency communications when I work. And on the opposite side of the spectrum is also to not feel guilty when I take time out to process, heal or grieve. I am struggling Reader, at creating these two boxes that do not overlap, and neatly categorizing what goes where. I seem to only have one messy box, into which work and emotions mix, leaving me floundering for sanity.

Would love to hear from you if you have better strategies for compartmentalizing. :)

P.S: This article is written entirely in my own context--as a student with numerous commitments, I need to be able to focus on my work, even in the midst of a pandemic. I am well aware you, my Reader, may be going through something entirely different, and my words may not apply to you. In that case, please do not take them as direction on what you should or should not do. I only intend to help, and not preach.