Loss

In my line of work, loss comes as an occupational hazard; a daily occurrence. Loss of loved ones, loss of confidence, loss of strength, loss of composure. Somewhere in the hospital, someone is mourning the loss of their child. Elsewhere, someone’s world is turned upside down over the loss of the love of their life.

As a mother’s tears fall down her face after having found out she had lost her unborn child, I experience a loss for words. She speaks Spanish; I speak English. My inability to express myself in a language she can understand has caused a loss of connection; a loss of rapport. With each irregular breath she takes as she sobs, my heart breaks. And I can’t even tell her that. The words “I’m sorry for your loss,” “I’m here for you,” and “Is there anything I can help you with?” get lost in translation as those words go beyond the limits of my Spanish vocabulary. Instead, I walk away with a hurting heart left unexpressed, losing my chance to encourage someone grieving the loss of her baby.

As a patient’s daughter is in shock with the news of her father’s death, staring into the distance and suddenly wailing… begging for her father to wake up, I lose my collectedness. My hands urge me to rest them on her shoulders but I lose courage; the act feels so small and there seems to be nothing I can do to make reality any less painful. Instead, I leave the room with my hands in my pockets, losing the opportunity to let her know that she is not alone.

In my line of work, loss comes as an occupational hazard; a daily occurrence. But it never gets old. It never gets any easier. Every day, I lose a piece of myself with every loss I witness and, every day, I find a reason to never take a day for granted. Neither should you.