Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Professional Distance

I was chatting with a colleague today about the blogs I read.
She said she hoped she never encountered a preterm or silent birth because (beyond the obvious tragedy of the situation) she was afraid she would cry.
We have these odd ideas in the Western world of so-called "professional distance". We have this impression that, to show feeling is to compromise this distance and so damage the boundary between us and our patients/clients. To me, "professional distance" is an attempt at dehumanizing the caregiver, the very person we want to "care" for us.
Granted, a person in the position of having to care for someone else shouldn't let their feelings compromise their ability to make correct and logical decisions, but to pretend the loss of a life doesn't affect you is to lose sight of the core of what caregiving means.
If I find myself in a situation that gives me joy, you can bet I'll be grinning all over my face. So too will I weep.
Because to me, part of being a caregiver is that I CARE for you.
I find many people don't understand why I read these blogs. I find it hard to put into words myself. It isn't voyeurism or curiosity. I want to know how they are doing. I want to help if I can. I want them to know that I care. Even if we never look each other in the eye. And to all of you babylost mamas out there who I have come across - I have a very good memory and if you have shared the story of your angel baby, I won't forget. Birdie, Gabriel, Maddy, Henry, Grace, Matthew, Jacob and Joshua, Cerina and Nadia, Devin, A, and Finn, you are loved.
Thanks to all those people who cared enough to share with strangers. You are teaching me how important it is to care. Here's to PROFESSIONAL CLOSENESS.

1 comment:

Joy said...

Speaking as someone who has encountered a LOT of medical professionals lately, let me tell you.. knowing the people care enough to smile and/or cry means a LOT.
I leave Robbie in the hands of strangers every night. When I see one of them speak to him softly.. when I hear them say "I'm so sorry, buddy" when they adjust his mask or poke him with a needle, I feel better. And I have to believe that he does, too. Love is universal.