Phillip Hughes : Too Soon?

When a person dies before the ripe old age of 60 years, it's called an early, untimely death. It doesn't matter what the cause may be - myocardial infarction, stroke, accident, cancer, or murder. An untimely death is always associated with "he didn't deserve it", "he was so young", "how could this happen?", "miss you forever", "in our hearts forever" and so many of these phrases.

That is exactly what is happening today since the breaking news that Australian Cricketer Phillip Hughes could not survive the injury he received from a bouncer. For a better part of today, I've been confused. First there was a "No!! NO!!" moment, followed by a "but it's simply not true" moment followed by a big lecture to God for ignoring my prayers since Tuesday (yes, I am arrogant enough to believe that God does what I ask him to). Then, after all that, came this confusion. Confusion because I still can't digest the fact that I will never see his name in the national team batting line-up; confusion because I almost expect him to walk out on the Gabba pitch next week; confusion because he's just 25; confusion because I don't consider cricket a fatal game - you may lose an eye, but a life?; confusion because I have watched this player bat since his international debut and I find it hard to believe that I will not be able to see how his career shapes up; confusion because the completeness of death makes me wonder whether all these "you're forever in our hearts" phrases are just empty or face-saving or soul-saving.

I feel that saying all this is our way of saying, "I'm guilty I never thought more about you during your lifetime. Trust me, now that you're gone, I'm so going to do it." I shall be the first to admit that I never thought about Hughes unless and until he actually played in the international team. I am a fan, but I shall not follow the careers of players day in and day out. So hearing the news of his injury made me feel guilty. Maybe if I had paid more attention, this wouldn't have happened. Crazy thought, but something to think about. Then, when he was battling for his life yesterday, I prayed that he survive. Because that was the least I could do. Amongst, the absolute dread of a news like today, I felt guilty for sending up a prayer only when it was the only thing that could save him. I felt guilty for not appreciating this wonderful cricketer as much as I should have before. That got me thinking, is this what is actually the message in peoples' "RIP" thoughts that plaster all the social networks? When a life is cut short, do we feel guilty because we thought we had all the time in the world to appreciate and thank that life? After all, I probably would've said stuff like," You're an amazing cricketer, a fantastic batsman and have been a great part of the team that I love, hope the new path you choose be as successful as the one you're leaving", when he retired. But, who knew, it would never reach that stage.

I've always been a little sensitive about the issue of death. I simply cannot understand why it has to happen. So when somebody so young (just 2 years older than me!) dies, I question nature and it's ways. He did not even get to say good-bye. And, that right there, would hurt his near ones more. He left in the morning to play the game he loves, was probably delighted when he reached his 50 and thought he could even reach the 100. And then out of nowhere, this bouncer decides to trick him. Next thing you know, he's down and gone, and all he must've realised is that he got hit. That's it. No life flashing in his eyes, no last words, just nothing at all. You almost wish he'd regained consciousness to at least let him know that he would be missed, loved, prayed for and thanked for being who he was.

Let's thank him and his talent for those 3 amazing international test centuries to his name, for being a part of the national team, for being such an amazing talent, for his contributions to his state and club, for being the person he was to his family, friends and team mates, for giving fans like me something to cheer about. I wish you hadn't gone away. I wish you were going to play next week. I wish I could watch you open the innings for eternity. I wish the only reason I never got to see you bat again, was because you weren't selected into the final 11. Now, that option seems so much easier to deal with than what we've been given.

Our only solace is that the last thing you ever did was play the game you love and score that 63. That number will never ever be the same again.

  That's how you'll always be....a great life, a great career :-)

Death

Death has always intrigued me. I wonder what it is like to go on the other of life…but more importantly, it cuts through my heart to see the people that you leave behind…the crying and all can be managed…but the hidden feelings, the pain, the unhappiness felt can’t even be measured.

I have seen relatives crying aloud in groups in the corridors of Sassoon. Initially it was unsettling. But, soon I got used to it. There are things you can’t do anything about. And death is one of them. Yesterday, however, I went back to being unsettled again.

I have wondered for a long time, what I would go through if I lose a patient. A patient under your care surrenders his life to you. That is a huge responsibility. Losing that life would make me so guilty…in fact, a lot of times, I’ve decided on not taking up braches that involve life and death…I don’t think I would be able to live with the thought of not being able to prevent death. Yesterday, the event unfolding before me and my emotions during that time, proved to me that I still haven’t strengthened my mind to face serious situations in the future.

On Friday, a friend and I were examining a patient of Alcoholic Liver Disease. On the bed next to him, was a young patient. He was asleep when his father started to wake him up. He did not wake up…his father slapped his face a few times, but when there wasn’t any response, he went and called the doctor in-charge. They managed to get the patient to wake up. I was a little scared that they might lose the patient, but he was breathing the whole time, so I was sure he was hanging on. Yesterday when the same events repeated, there was no respiratory movement and know response…the patient got an infarction in front of our eyes and the doctors couldn’t do anything to save him. They tried CPR but couldn’t do much…he expired…

The whole time, his father was standing at the side, expressionless. When he was told that his son hadn’t made it, he tried making a few calls. His face looked a bag full of suppressed emotions as he tried to deal with the problem of range for his cellphone. Looking at the way he was walking around and trying to remain calm, I wished he’d had one more person to manage him. After taking the help of the people around him, he managed to let his relatives know, I guess...That done, he sat on his son’s bed. And he just stared at that face. Then, he took his son’s head in his lap and brushed his fingers through his son’s hair. A lot of times.

That was when it happened. There was a change of expression…a glimpse of the actual pain he was going through. He kept staring at that pale face, kept running his fingers through those hair…with speed that showed his intent at wanting to get his son back. It was so painful to watch him like that. Helpless, broken, lost. I wanted to go and give him a hug. I wanted to tell him it was ok to cry and that he should. But, all I could do was stand at a distance.

It hurts so much to think of some person you know, as dead…a friend of mine expired in an accident 4 years back. She wasn’t a very close friend, but the shock and pain I had felt at that time, makes me uncomfortable even today. I still care and still wish she was around with us. If that is what acquaintances feel about the dead, how would the relatives feel? How would parents feel holding their children’s bodies in their hands; the same hands that had held those children when they were born, the same hands that had held their children’s hands as they took their first steps…the dreams, the beautiful pictures painted suddenly come crashing down and all you stare at is that white face. You want to do anything to bring them back, even sacrifice yourself if it would bring them back. But, you just sit there, crying to yourself…trying to move on, but not being able to get rid of those memories.

And this is where I think, should I, as a doctor, be so sentimental about death? This wasn’t even my patient, or a patient I’d talked to. But, I still felt it. Wouldn’t it be worse if a patient under my care lost his battle? Apart from feeling guilty, I would keep thinking about the effects of that death on the rest of his family. This will only increase my own guilt. In my sensitive side’s defence though, I can only say : It takes time to get used to something, or to find a way to get used to it. And where Medicine is concerned, failures are more serious than failures anywhere else.

Food for thought, I guess…