Years ago, in the children's unit of a prestigious specialist London hospital, I ran a regular support group for nurses, physiotherapists and other professional staff. Working in a place like that, you face loss both ways. Obviously when children you have grown emotionally attached to are grievously sick, and when they die; but similarly when they get better, leave hospital and go home with their parents.
Hospital staff naturally grow attached to children in their care
In one of the early groups, I asked people how they coped. This was a unit which prided itself on what was called ‘professionalism', which basically meant not showing your feelings at work. "We're not allowed to cry on the ward", one young nurse told me. "So", I asked again, "How do you cope?"
The answers were interesting, and made me feel the new support group could prove useful. "I cry in the sluice room", one person then told me. "I cry on the bus on the way home", said another. "I cry with my boyfriend when I get home", replied a third. It was already a relief for them to share with each other what they had each been doing secretly for months.
They were afraid, they said, of growing hard and uncaring.
These group meetings, time snatched from busy schedules, were by no means compulsory, and I noticed that they were seldom attended by the more experienced staff on the unit. I did not make the mistake of thinking that they had become heartless and indifferent, recognizing that they had probably found more successful ways of managing the emotional ups and downs than crying in the sluice room by now. Repeated exposure to loss has a way of helping us to mature.
This assumption proved correct at one of the weekly group meetings that took place several months after they had first begun. To give the background, Darren was a nine-year-old boy brought first to the unit when only a matter of hours old with serious congenital malformations of the heart. He had been operated on immediately and countless times since. There had never been a complete correction of the circulation problems associated with the original heart defect, and as his body grew in size, various other procedures became necessary.
A small child after heart surgery
By the time he was nine, Darren had spent many months of his life on the unit. All the staff knew him, and many had grown very fond of this cheerful, long-suffering child. Sadly, though, having to force his blood through the constricted aperture of a damaged heart valve had put excessive strain on that vital organ and, in heart failure at the time of his most recent admission to the unit, he had become very poorly indeed.
The surgeons were reluctant to risk further surgery, but the physicians were saying that unless an operation to successfully widen the valve was carried out, Darren could not survive much longer.
I did not know Darren, or his story, when I came to take the support group one sombre Monday lunchtime, but I knew instantly that something out of the ordinary was afoot when the small meeting room, normally occupied by four or five people, filled up with eleven or twelve, among them several of the most senior and experienced staff in the place.
The sky outside was filled with lead-grey clouds. The room was dark, and the atmosphere was heavy. At first, no-one spoke. I wondered what was happening, kept quiet for a while, but then had to ask the question, "Will someone please tell me why you are all here today?"
The answer was stark. "Darren died on the operating table this morning." Then the silence resumed.
When they eventually started talking, it turned out that most of those present were angry. They were angry at the physicians for recommending surgery. They were angry with the surgeons for going ahead with such a risky operation when Darren was already so ill. They were even angry with Darren's mother for consenting to the procedure. For all I know, one or two of them were also angry with God.
Emotions ran high, and I let them share their feelings with each other. After a while, the talking petered out, but this heavy feeling remained. I developed a kind of abdominal tension myself, a real gut feeling that seemed to confirm to me how eviscerated everyone else was by this enormous loss. It must have felt like a severe challenge to everything they were trying to do, week by week, for the children in their care.
I looked around the room at their faces and saw in each one a picture of grief. Fortunately, my training allowed me to remain hopeful. I knew that the emotions of anger, doubt, shame and guilt - however irrational - grow strong as a loss is processed. We all feel bad, and tend to blame ourselves as well as others under such circumstances. That's how it works; but it is not how it ends, for nature has provided us with a process of emotional healing, and very often this takes us into - and through - sorrow, so that we can again find peace, confidence, joy and equanimity.
As I waited, then, the atmosphere in the room gradually altered. Anger and bitterness subsided, and an intense sadness momentarily supervened. I think we all felt it. Certainly my eyes began briefly to prickle with tears. This was the moment further futile resistance to the loss evaporated. Darren was gone. There could be no bringing him back... and it was sad.
But this too was not the finish. Following the sadness, the heavy atmosphere gradually began to lighten. Quite spontaneously, we all started to feel better. Self-esteem and professional pride were gradually re-asserted. Group members were able to recognize themselves and each other as real people with true feelings that backed up and validated their efforts, their training, experience and skills. This was natural team-building.
Finally, one of the nurses who had not spoken earlier, and who had perhaps know Darren for longest, said, "Maybe what happened was for the best". It was a sane and thoughtful remark, acknowledging how damaged his heart had been, and therefore how restricted and uncertain their young patient's life would still have been had he survived. At the beginning of the session, this remark would undoubtedly have been challenged. Forty-five minutes later, after a painful time shared by all, it could be accepted as wisdom. They were all calmer, less angry, readier to resume their invaluable work bringing healing to others, and move on.
Copyright Larry Culliford
Larry's books include ‘The Psychology of Spirituality', ‘Love, Healing & Happiness' and (as Patrick Whiteside) ‘The Little Book of Happiness' and ‘Happiness: The 30 Day Guide' (personally endorsed by HH The Dalai Lama).
