I’m re-blogging this to share Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem. I’m speaking at Schwartz Rounds at four hospitals this week, and were I to capture the essence of compassionate health care–and of compassion itself–I could never say it as well as she did.
Among a seemingly endless parade of concrete tasks which go on, I realized yesterday that one of my children had not yet had a flu shot. So just before the Patriots kickoff I ran him into a pharmacy to get one.
Only as he filled out the form did I consciously register it was the 22nd day of the month. It has now been longer since Jim died than our family lived with the knowledge of his illness.
I wonder if it is not so much the passage of time that I am told eventually will make grief feel less visceral–the tripwire for it and the torrent of it a little less close to the surface–but at least in part the mathematics of it: when those months of illness find themselves sandwiched by years and even decades of before and after, perhaps it will be easier for me and…
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