In Face of Death
It was an awful morning. Life and Death hovered over us at every moment, but Death seemed to loom larger that morning. It was few weeks into my first month in the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) as a pediatric intern, and it was the first rotation that gave me the bitter taste of what it means to face a patient’s death.
At the start of my NICU rotation, I received “sign-out” (a process where the outgoing resident gives the incoming resident information about the patients they are handing off). During the sign-out, the outgoing intern mentioned that one of the babies, BG (not her real name), was dying. It was just a matter of time. Modern medicine had done all that it could offer, and there was nothing more we could do. The most important thing was to keep her comfortable.
Every morning, as I pre-rounded on my babies (a process where residents examine patients and gather important data such as vital signs, laboratory results, medications, ins and outs, etc. before formal morning rounds with the team), I took an extra longer time with her because I knew that her days were numbered. I like to talk to all my babies so I would talk to her, sing softly to her and/or pray over her. She was hooked up to so many things (mechanical ventilator to help her breathe, IVs for medications and nutrition, cardiac monitors, etc.) so I could not hold her in my arms, but I touched her body where it was not taped up or dressed so that she could feel another human being’s touch.
As I left every evening, I left not knowing if she would still be there in the morning. Days turned into weeks, and I began to think that perhaps she would last through my four weeks in the NICU. Perhaps I could give a similar sign-out about her to the incoming resident, and I would not have to face her death on my watch.
Then the inevitable happened. I walked into the NICU early that morning as usual, and the night resident gave me a look. The look. Then she told me that BG had taken the turn for the worse overnight and that the decision had been made to pull her life supports. They had just turned off the ventilator about 30 minutes before I walked in. My mind going blank, I rushed to her bedside. Her mom—whom I had not seen in a very long time—was holding her. She looked so small without all the gadgets and gizmos that had been attached to her before. I stayed by her until her heart stopped beating, and her mom let me hold her—for the first and last time. Despite my valiant efforts, I could not hold back the tears that were streaming down my face. I tried to maintain my composure, trying to be professional.
Once I walked out of her room, though, I walked into an empty room and sobbed. As a Christian, I was never afraid of death. But that morning, I was overcome with grief because I was not sure if would see BG again. When I entered the medical profession, I signed on to save lives, not to watch helpless babies die! Or so I felt, for that moment.
As I stood head-deep in my grief, two of my co-interns in the NICU came looking for me. They had heard about BG and wanted to make sure I was doing ok. They were both fellow Christians, and we had exchanged Bible verses and words of encouragements in the past to get us through the tough moments of internship. They gave me a hug, and we prayed together—for BG, her family, our NICU team, healing, comfort, and understanding. By the end of our prayer, I felt so much better. Having these two brothers in Christ with me was a godsend. Although we worked in a secular environment, there was always an opportunity for a spiritual moment. Being a Christian meant that Christ was part of every aspect of one’s life— work or home, secular place or church, life or death. And through my fellow Christian colleagues, God reminded me, “I, even I, am he who comforts you” (Isaiah 51:12).
Someone once said that we start dying the moment we are born. In a secular, biologic sense, that is true. However, in a spiritual sense, we start living the moment we die—die to self, that is. Just like BG, our days are seemingly numbered. We are headed toward death. No more can be done for us. That was probably the sign-out that Satan gave to Jesus regarding us when Jesus came to take care of us. But unlike me, Jesus could do more than just talk to us or touch us. He saved us. Forever. He offers us eternal Life, which can be ours if we accept Him and let Him put to death our sinful self.
“‘Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?’ The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain” (1 Corinthians 15:55-58). So I press on, knowing that although the lives of my patients are out of my control, He is in control of my life – and the life of every created being.
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Dr. Wonha (Iris) Kim is a pediatrician in Baltimore, MD. She recently completed her pediatric residency at Johns Hopkins Hospital and is currently doing a fellowship in General Preventive Medicine along with MPH studies at Johns Hopkins. Her lifelong goal is to become a medical missionary--to walk in the footsteps of the Great Physician.