Leif Hass, MD

I arrived on the 6th floor nursing unit one day last fall to find halls abuzz with people. Something didn’t feel right, and then I a saw a nursing colleague with tears streaming down her face. My heart dropped. She looked up at me and said, “Dr Hass, K died last night.” She started to sob. I stood dumbfounded for a moment. We had lost a beloved coworker to COVID.

There has been a collective sense of grief in our country since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic as we have all been suffering losses: smiles, touch, in-person relationships, a “normal life.” But it went to another level for us at Alta Bates Summit Medical Center in Oakland, Calif., with the passing of a couple of our beloved teammates in the fall. Strong emotions triggered by these events caused me to pause and think: “What is grief? Is it another word for sadness? How do we work through it?”

What is the difference between sadness and grief? While related, they are temporally and functionally quite different. Sadness is an emotion, and like all emotions, we feel it in brief episodes. Those moments of profound sadness only last minutes at a time. Sadness leads to decreased physiological arousal, especially after crying. When less intense, the physiological slowing is thought to allow for some mental clarity that lets the loss sink in and moves us toward a recalibration process. These episodes of sadness occur more frequently and with greater intensity the closer we are to the triggering event.

While emotions last minutes, mood, another affective state, lasts hours to days and is less intense and specific in content. A sad mood can be present much of the time after a significant loss. Emotions predispose to moods and vice versa.

Grief, on the other hand, is a complex and lengthy process that moves us from a place of loss to a new place with a new equilibrium without the lost object. While sadness is about fully acknowledging the loss, the grieving process is about getting beyond it. The bigger the loss, the bigger the hole in your life and the longer the grieving process. Grief is a multi-emotional process with people often experiencing a range of emotions, such as shock, anger, and fear in addition to sadness.

As I grappled with my sense of loss, I realized that understanding the grieving process was going to help me as I navigate this world now full of loss. Here are a few things we should all keep in mind.
 

A sense of mindful self-awareness

As we work through our grief, a mindful self-awareness can help us identify our emotions and see them as part of the grieving process. Simply anticipating emotions can lessen the impact of them when they come. As they come on, try to name the emotion, e.g., “I am so sad,” and feel the experience in the body. The sadness can be cathartic, and by focusing on the body and not the head, we can also drop the sometimes healthy, sometimes unhealthy rants and ruminations that can accompany these events. If we experience the emotions with mindful self-awareness, we can see our emotions as part of a healing, grieving process, and we will likely be able to handle them more gracefully.

In the days after the death of my nursing colleague, my sad mood would be interrupted with flares of anger triggered by thoughts of those not wearing masks or spreading misinformation. Moving my thoughts to the emotions, I would say to myself, “I am really angry, and I am angry because of these deaths.” I felt the recognition of the emotions helped me better ride the big waves on the grieving journey.

Counter to the thinking of the 20th century, research by George Bonanno at Columbia University found that the majority of bereavement is met with resilience. We will be sad, we might have moments of anger or denial or fear, but for most of us, despite the gravity of the loss, our innate resilience will lead about 50-80% of us to recover to near our baseline in months. It is nice to know we are not repressing things if we don’t pass through all the stages postulated by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, the dominate paradigm in the field.¹

For those grieving, this idea of resilience being the norm can provide reassurance during tough moments. While our degree of resilience will depend on our loss and our circumstance, the work of Lucy Hone, PhD, suggests that resilience can be fostered. Many of the negative feelings we experience have a flip side we can seek out. We can be grateful for what remains and what the departed has left us with. We can aid in our grieving journey by using many of the resources available from UC Berkeley’s Greater Good in Action (https://ggia.berkeley.edu/).

While most grief is met with resilience, complicated grieving with persistent negative moods and emotions is common. We should consider seeking professional help if our emotions and pattern of thought continue to feel unhealthy.
 

Meaning and wisdom, not acceptance

Another change in our understanding of grief is this: Instead of “acceptance” being seen as the end result of grieving, meaning and wisdom are now recognized as the outcomes. Research has found that efforts to find meaning in loss facilitates the grieving process. As time passes and our sadness lessens, the loved one doesn’t leave us but stays with us as a better understanding of the beauty and complexity of life. The loss, through grieving, is transformed to wisdom that will guide us through future challenges and help us make sense of the world.

Last week, masked and robed and with an iPad in hand so the family could join the conversation, I was talking to Ms. B who is hospitalized with COVID-19. She said, “I just keep thinking, ‘Why is this happening to me? To all of us?’ And then I realized that it is a message from God that we need to do a better job of taking care of each other, and I suddenly felt a little better. What do you think, Dr. Hass?”

“Wow,” I said. “Thank you for sharing that. There is definitely some truth there. There is a lot to learn from the pandemic about how we care for each other. I need to keep that in mind when I start feeling down.”

So much is going on now: climate change, racial violence, frightening political dysfunction, and a global pandemic that has upended our daily routines and the economy. It is hard to keep track of all the loss and uncertainty. We might not know why feelings of sadness, anger and anxiety come on, but if we can meet these emotions with mindful equanimity, see them as part of our intrinsic healing process and keep in mind that our path will likely be towards one of wisdom and sense-making, we can better navigate these profoundly unsettling times.

Just as sadness is not grief, joy alone does not lead to happiness. A happy life comes as much from meaning as joy. While unbridled joy might be in short supply, our grief, our work as hospitalists with the suffering, and confronting the many problems our world faces gives us the opportunity to lead a meaningful life. If we couple this search for meaning with healthy habits that promote wellbeing, such as hugs, investing in relationships, and moving our body in the natural world, we can survive these crazy times and be wiser beings as a result of our experiences.
 

Dr. Hass is a hospitalist at Sutter East Bay Medical Group in Oakland, Calif. He is a member of the clinical faculty at the University of California, Berkeley-UC San Francisco joint medical program, and an adviser on health and health care at the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley.

Reference

1. Bonanno GA, and Boerner K. The stage theory of grief. JAMA. 2007;297(24):2692-2694. doi:10.1001/jama.297.24.2693-a.

I arrived on the 6th floor nursing unit one day last fall to find halls abuzz with people. Something didn’t feel right, and then I a saw a nursing colleague with tears streaming down her face. My heart dropped. She looked up at me and said, “Dr Hass, K died last night.” She started to sob. I stood dumbfounded for a moment. We had lost a beloved coworker to COVID.

There has been a collective sense of grief in our country since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic as we have all been suffering losses: smiles, touch, in-person relationships, a “normal life.” But it went to another level for us at Alta Bates Summit Medical Center in Oakland, Calif., with the passing of a couple of our beloved teammates in the fall. Strong emotions triggered by these events caused me to pause and think: “What is grief? Is it another word for sadness? How do we work through it?”

What is the difference between sadness and grief? While related, they are temporally and functionally quite different. Sadness is an emotion, and like all emotions, we feel it in brief episodes. Those moments of profound sadness only last minutes at a time. Sadness leads to decreased physiological arousal, especially after crying. When less intense, the physiological slowing is thought to allow for some mental clarity that lets the loss sink in and moves us toward a recalibration process. These episodes of sadness occur more frequently and with greater intensity the closer we are to the triggering event.

While emotions last minutes, mood, another affective state, lasts hours to days and is less intense and specific in content. A sad mood can be present much of the time after a significant loss. Emotions predispose to moods and vice versa.

Grief, on the other hand, is a complex and lengthy process that moves us from a place of loss to a new place with a new equilibrium without the lost object. While sadness is about fully acknowledging the loss, the grieving process is about getting beyond it. The bigger the loss, the bigger the hole in your life and the longer the grieving process. Grief is a multi-emotional process with people often experiencing a range of emotions, such as shock, anger, and fear in addition to sadness.

As I grappled with my sense of loss, I realized that understanding the grieving process was going to help me as I navigate this world now full of loss. Here are a few things we should all keep in mind.
 

A sense of mindful self-awareness

As we work through our grief, a mindful self-awareness can help us identify our emotions and see them as part of the grieving process. Simply anticipating emotions can lessen the impact of them when they come. As they come on, try to name the emotion, e.g., “I am so sad,” and feel the experience in the body. The sadness can be cathartic, and by focusing on the body and not the head, we can also drop the sometimes healthy, sometimes unhealthy rants and ruminations that can accompany these events. If we experience the emotions with mindful self-awareness, we can see our emotions as part of a healing, grieving process, and we will likely be able to handle them more gracefully.

In the days after the death of my nursing colleague, my sad mood would be interrupted with flares of anger triggered by thoughts of those not wearing masks or spreading misinformation. Moving my thoughts to the emotions, I would say to myself, “I am really angry, and I am angry because of these deaths.” I felt the recognition of the emotions helped me better ride the big waves on the grieving journey.

Counter to the thinking of the 20th century, research by George Bonanno at Columbia University found that the majority of bereavement is met with resilience. We will be sad, we might have moments of anger or denial or fear, but for most of us, despite the gravity of the loss, our innate resilience will lead about 50-80% of us to recover to near our baseline in months. It is nice to know we are not repressing things if we don’t pass through all the stages postulated by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, the dominate paradigm in the field.¹

For those grieving, this idea of resilience being the norm can provide reassurance during tough moments. While our degree of resilience will depend on our loss and our circumstance, the work of Lucy Hone, PhD, suggests that resilience can be fostered. Many of the negative feelings we experience have a flip side we can seek out. We can be grateful for what remains and what the departed has left us with. We can aid in our grieving journey by using many of the resources available from UC Berkeley’s Greater Good in Action (https://ggia.berkeley.edu/).

While most grief is met with resilience, complicated grieving with persistent negative moods and emotions is common. We should consider seeking professional help if our emotions and pattern of thought continue to feel unhealthy.
 

Meaning and wisdom, not acceptance

Another change in our understanding of grief is this: Instead of “acceptance” being seen as the end result of grieving, meaning and wisdom are now recognized as the outcomes. Research has found that efforts to find meaning in loss facilitates the grieving process. As time passes and our sadness lessens, the loved one doesn’t leave us but stays with us as a better understanding of the beauty and complexity of life. The loss, through grieving, is transformed to wisdom that will guide us through future challenges and help us make sense of the world.

Last week, masked and robed and with an iPad in hand so the family could join the conversation, I was talking to Ms. B who is hospitalized with COVID-19. She said, “I just keep thinking, ‘Why is this happening to me? To all of us?’ And then I realized that it is a message from God that we need to do a better job of taking care of each other, and I suddenly felt a little better. What do you think, Dr. Hass?”

“Wow,” I said. “Thank you for sharing that. There is definitely some truth there. There is a lot to learn from the pandemic about how we care for each other. I need to keep that in mind when I start feeling down.”

So much is going on now: climate change, racial violence, frightening political dysfunction, and a global pandemic that has upended our daily routines and the economy. It is hard to keep track of all the loss and uncertainty. We might not know why feelings of sadness, anger and anxiety come on, but if we can meet these emotions with mindful equanimity, see them as part of our intrinsic healing process and keep in mind that our path will likely be towards one of wisdom and sense-making, we can better navigate these profoundly unsettling times.

Just as sadness is not grief, joy alone does not lead to happiness. A happy life comes as much from meaning as joy. While unbridled joy might be in short supply, our grief, our work as hospitalists with the suffering, and confronting the many problems our world faces gives us the opportunity to lead a meaningful life. If we couple this search for meaning with healthy habits that promote wellbeing, such as hugs, investing in relationships, and moving our body in the natural world, we can survive these crazy times and be wiser beings as a result of our experiences.
 

Dr. Hass is a hospitalist at Sutter East Bay Medical Group in Oakland, Calif. He is a member of the clinical faculty at the University of California, Berkeley-UC San Francisco joint medical program, and an adviser on health and health care at the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley.

Reference

1. Bonanno GA, and Boerner K. The stage theory of grief. JAMA. 2007;297(24):2692-2694. doi:10.1001/jama.297.24.2693-a.

I arrived on the 6th floor nursing unit one day last fall to find halls abuzz with people. Something didn’t feel right, and then I a saw a nursing colleague with tears streaming down her face. My heart dropped. She looked up at me and said, “Dr Hass, K died last night.” She started to sob. I stood dumbfounded for a moment. We had lost a beloved coworker to COVID.

There has been a collective sense of grief in our country since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic as we have all been suffering losses: smiles, touch, in-person relationships, a “normal life.” But it went to another level for us at Alta Bates Summit Medical Center in Oakland, Calif., with the passing of a couple of our beloved teammates in the fall. Strong emotions triggered by these events caused me to pause and think: “What is grief? Is it another word for sadness? How do we work through it?”

What is the difference between sadness and grief? While related, they are temporally and functionally quite different. Sadness is an emotion, and like all emotions, we feel it in brief episodes. Those moments of profound sadness only last minutes at a time. Sadness leads to decreased physiological arousal, especially after crying. When less intense, the physiological slowing is thought to allow for some mental clarity that lets the loss sink in and moves us toward a recalibration process. These episodes of sadness occur more frequently and with greater intensity the closer we are to the triggering event.

While emotions last minutes, mood, another affective state, lasts hours to days and is less intense and specific in content. A sad mood can be present much of the time after a significant loss. Emotions predispose to moods and vice versa.

Grief, on the other hand, is a complex and lengthy process that moves us from a place of loss to a new place with a new equilibrium without the lost object. While sadness is about fully acknowledging the loss, the grieving process is about getting beyond it. The bigger the loss, the bigger the hole in your life and the longer the grieving process. Grief is a multi-emotional process with people often experiencing a range of emotions, such as shock, anger, and fear in addition to sadness.

As I grappled with my sense of loss, I realized that understanding the grieving process was going to help me as I navigate this world now full of loss. Here are a few things we should all keep in mind.
 

A sense of mindful self-awareness

As we work through our grief, a mindful self-awareness can help us identify our emotions and see them as part of the grieving process. Simply anticipating emotions can lessen the impact of them when they come. As they come on, try to name the emotion, e.g., “I am so sad,” and feel the experience in the body. The sadness can be cathartic, and by focusing on the body and not the head, we can also drop the sometimes healthy, sometimes unhealthy rants and ruminations that can accompany these events. If we experience the emotions with mindful self-awareness, we can see our emotions as part of a healing, grieving process, and we will likely be able to handle them more gracefully.

In the days after the death of my nursing colleague, my sad mood would be interrupted with flares of anger triggered by thoughts of those not wearing masks or spreading misinformation. Moving my thoughts to the emotions, I would say to myself, “I am really angry, and I am angry because of these deaths.” I felt the recognition of the emotions helped me better ride the big waves on the grieving journey.

Counter to the thinking of the 20th century, research by George Bonanno at Columbia University found that the majority of bereavement is met with resilience. We will be sad, we might have moments of anger or denial or fear, but for most of us, despite the gravity of the loss, our innate resilience will lead about 50-80% of us to recover to near our baseline in months. It is nice to know we are not repressing things if we don’t pass through all the stages postulated by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, the dominate paradigm in the field.¹

For those grieving, this idea of resilience being the norm can provide reassurance during tough moments. While our degree of resilience will depend on our loss and our circumstance, the work of Lucy Hone, PhD, suggests that resilience can be fostered. Many of the negative feelings we experience have a flip side we can seek out. We can be grateful for what remains and what the departed has left us with. We can aid in our grieving journey by using many of the resources available from UC Berkeley’s Greater Good in Action (https://ggia.berkeley.edu/).

While most grief is met with resilience, complicated grieving with persistent negative moods and emotions is common. We should consider seeking professional help if our emotions and pattern of thought continue to feel unhealthy.
 

Meaning and wisdom, not acceptance

Another change in our understanding of grief is this: Instead of “acceptance” being seen as the end result of grieving, meaning and wisdom are now recognized as the outcomes. Research has found that efforts to find meaning in loss facilitates the grieving process. As time passes and our sadness lessens, the loved one doesn’t leave us but stays with us as a better understanding of the beauty and complexity of life. The loss, through grieving, is transformed to wisdom that will guide us through future challenges and help us make sense of the world.

Last week, masked and robed and with an iPad in hand so the family could join the conversation, I was talking to Ms. B who is hospitalized with COVID-19. She said, “I just keep thinking, ‘Why is this happening to me? To all of us?’ And then I realized that it is a message from God that we need to do a better job of taking care of each other, and I suddenly felt a little better. What do you think, Dr. Hass?”

“Wow,” I said. “Thank you for sharing that. There is definitely some truth there. There is a lot to learn from the pandemic about how we care for each other. I need to keep that in mind when I start feeling down.”

So much is going on now: climate change, racial violence, frightening political dysfunction, and a global pandemic that has upended our daily routines and the economy. It is hard to keep track of all the loss and uncertainty. We might not know why feelings of sadness, anger and anxiety come on, but if we can meet these emotions with mindful equanimity, see them as part of our intrinsic healing process and keep in mind that our path will likely be towards one of wisdom and sense-making, we can better navigate these profoundly unsettling times.

Just as sadness is not grief, joy alone does not lead to happiness. A happy life comes as much from meaning as joy. While unbridled joy might be in short supply, our grief, our work as hospitalists with the suffering, and confronting the many problems our world faces gives us the opportunity to lead a meaningful life. If we couple this search for meaning with healthy habits that promote wellbeing, such as hugs, investing in relationships, and moving our body in the natural world, we can survive these crazy times and be wiser beings as a result of our experiences.
 

Dr. Hass is a hospitalist at Sutter East Bay Medical Group in Oakland, Calif. He is a member of the clinical faculty at the University of California, Berkeley-UC San Francisco joint medical program, and an adviser on health and health care at the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley.

Reference

1. Bonanno GA, and Boerner K. The stage theory of grief. JAMA. 2007;297(24):2692-2694. doi:10.1001/jama.297.24.2693-a.

Approaching the nursing unit, I heard the anxiety in my masked colleagues’ voices. I was starting another rotation on our COVID unit; this week I was trying to develop my emotional awareness in an effort to help with the stress of the job and, just as importantly, take in the moments of positive emotions when they arose. I was making a conscious effort to take in all I saw and felt in the same way I approached my patient examinations: my mind quiet, receptive, and curious.

Seeing my nursing teammates covered with personal protective equipment, I felt a little reverence at the purpose they bring to work. Thinking of our patients, isolated and scared in noisy, ventilated rooms, there was compassion welling up in my chest. Thinking about my role on the team, I felt humbled by the challenges of treating this new disease and meeting the needs of staff and patient.

A few years ago, a period of frustration and disaffectedness had led me to apply my diagnostic eye to myself: I was burning out. Developing a mindfulness practice has transformed my experience at work. Now, the pandemic pushed me to go beyond a few minutes of quieting the mind before work. I was developing my emotional awareness. A growing body of research suggests that emotional awareness helps temper the negative experiences and savor the good. This week on the COVID unit was an opportunity to put this idea to the test.

Across the hall from the desk was Ms. A, 85-year-old woman who always clutched her rosary. My Spanish is not great, but I understood her prayer when I entered the room. She had tested positive for COVID about 7 days before – so had all the people in her multigenerational home. Over the din of the negative-pressure machine, with damp eyes she kept saying she wanted to go home. I felt my body soften and, in my chest, it felt as if my heart moved towards her which is the manifestation of compassion. “I will do my best to get you there soon,” I said in an effort to comfort her.

We often resist strong emotions, especially at work, because they can increase stress in situations where we need to be in control. In high-emotion situations, our brain’s warning centers alert both body and brain. This has helped our ancestors to action over the millennia, but in the hospital, these responses hurt more than help. Our bodies amplifying the emotion, our mind races for solutions and we can feel overwhelmed.

Simply recognizing the emotion and naming it puts the brakes on this process. fMRI data demonstrate that naming the emotions moves the brain activity away from the emotion centers to the appraisal centers in the frontal lobe. Just the perspective to see the emotional process calms it down.

Name it to tame it – this is what those in the field call this act. “This is sadness,” I said to myself as I left Ms. A’s room.

Down the hall was Mr. D; he was an 81-year-old former Vietnamese refugee. He had come in 3 days prior to my coming on service. While he didn’t talk, even with an interpreter, he ate well and had looked comfortable for days on 50% O₂.

Ms. A’s O₂ needs crept up each day as did her anxiety, the plaintive tenor of her prayers and inquiries about going home. I got a priest to visit, not for last rites but just for some support. Over the phone, I updated the family on the prognosis.

A couple of days later, she needed 95% O₂ and with PO₂ was only 70. I told her family it seemed she was losing her battle with the virus. I said we could see how she did on 60% – that’s the max she could get at home with hospice. I called them after 2 hours on 60% to tell them she was up eating and despite slight increased resp rate, she looked okay. “Can you guarantee that she would not make it if she stayed in the hospital? “

My body vibrating with uncertainty – an emotional mix of fear and sadness – I said, “I am sorry, but this is such a new disease, I can’t say that for certain.” On the call, family members voiced different opinions, but in the end, they were unable to give up hope, so we agreed to keep her in hospital.

Down the hall, Mr. D had stopped eating and his sats dropped as did his blood pressure. A nurse exited his room; despite the mask and steamed-up glasses, I could read her body language. “That poor man is dying,” she said. I told her I agreed and called the family with the news and to offer them a chance to visit and to talk about home hospice.

“He has not seen any of us in 10 months,” said his daughter over the phone, “We would love to visit and talk about bringing him home on hospice.” The next morning four of his nine kids showed up with a quart of jook, an Asian rice porridge, for him and pastries for the staff.

They left the room smiling an hour later. “He ate all the jook and he smiled! Yes, let’s work on home with hospice.” That night his blood pressure was better, and we were able to move him to 8 liters oxymizer; the staff was excited by his improvement, too.

The next day Ms. A was less responsive with sats in the 80’s on 100% FiO₂, but she still had this great sense of warmth and dignity about her. When I entered the room, Spanish Catholic hymns were playing, two of her kids stood leaning over the bed and on an iPod, there was a chorus of tears. 20 family members were all crying on a Zoom call. Together this made the most beautiful soundtrack to an end of life I have ever heard. I tried hard not to join the chorus as we talked about turning off the oxygen to help limit her suffering.

We added a bolus of morphine to her drip and removed the oxygen. She looked more beautiful and peaceful without it. Briefly, she closed her eyes then opened them, her breathing calmer. And with the hymns and the chorus of family crying she lived another 20 minutes in the loving presence of her big family.

Leaving the room, I was flooded with “woulda, coulda, shouldas” that accompany work with so much uncertainty and high stakes. “Maybe I should have tried convalescent plasma. Maybe I should have told them she must go home,” and so on my mind went on looking for solutions when there were none. I turned to my body – my chest ached, and I whispered to myself: “This is how sadness feels.”

By thinking about how the emotion feels in the body, we move the mind away from problem solving that can end up leading to unhealthy ruminations. Such thoughts in times of high emotions lead to that pressurized, tightness feeling we get when overwhelmed. Taking in the universal sensations of the emotions is calming and connects us with these deep human experiences in healthy ways. At the same time, the racing and ruminations stop.

Meanwhile, down the hall, Mr. D’s family arrived in great spirits armed with more food for patient and staff. He was to go home later that day with hospice. When they saw him up in the chair without the oxygen, they said: “It is a miracle, Dr. Hass! He is going home on hospice but having beat COVID! We can’t thank you enough!”

“Don’t thank me! He was cured by love and jook! What a lesson for us all. Sometimes there is no better medicine than food from home and love!” With the explosive expansiveness of joy, we shared some “elbow bumps” and took some pictures before he was wheeled home.

Back at the nurse’s station, there were tears. Sometimes life is so full of emotion that it is hard to give it a name – joy? grief? Our bodies almost pulsing, our minds searching for words, it is as if an ancient process is marking a time and place in our souls. “This is what it is to be a human being living with love and creating meaning,” the experience seems to be telling us.

This is awesome work. In fact, awe was what we were feeling then – that sense of wonder we have in the presence of something beautiful or vast that we cannot easily comprehend. Taking in these moments of awe at the power and depth of the human experience is critical to keep us humble, engaged, and emotionally involved.

Cultivating emotional awareness is a simple technique to maintain equanimity as we do the emotionally turbulent work of caring for vulnerable and seriously ill members of our community. It uses the same techniques of attention and diagnosis we use on those we care for. It is a practice that can be seamlessly incorporated into our workday with no time added. Recognizing it, naming it, and feeling it will give us the resilience to handle the challenges this amazing work inevitably brings.

Dr. Hass is a hospitalist at Sutter East Bay Medical Group in Oakland, Calif. He is a member of the clinical faculty at the University of California, Berkeley–UC San Francisco joint medical program, and an adviser on health and health care at the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley.

Approaching the nursing unit, I heard the anxiety in my masked colleagues’ voices. I was starting another rotation on our COVID unit; this week I was trying to develop my emotional awareness in an effort to help with the stress of the job and, just as importantly, take in the moments of positive emotions when they arose. I was making a conscious effort to take in all I saw and felt in the same way I approached my patient examinations: my mind quiet, receptive, and curious.

Seeing my nursing teammates covered with personal protective equipment, I felt a little reverence at the purpose they bring to work. Thinking of our patients, isolated and scared in noisy, ventilated rooms, there was compassion welling up in my chest. Thinking about my role on the team, I felt humbled by the challenges of treating this new disease and meeting the needs of staff and patient.

A few years ago, a period of frustration and disaffectedness had led me to apply my diagnostic eye to myself: I was burning out. Developing a mindfulness practice has transformed my experience at work. Now, the pandemic pushed me to go beyond a few minutes of quieting the mind before work. I was developing my emotional awareness. A growing body of research suggests that emotional awareness helps temper the negative experiences and savor the good. This week on the COVID unit was an opportunity to put this idea to the test.

Across the hall from the desk was Ms. A, 85-year-old woman who always clutched her rosary. My Spanish is not great, but I understood her prayer when I entered the room. She had tested positive for COVID about 7 days before – so had all the people in her multigenerational home. Over the din of the negative-pressure machine, with damp eyes she kept saying she wanted to go home. I felt my body soften and, in my chest, it felt as if my heart moved towards her which is the manifestation of compassion. “I will do my best to get you there soon,” I said in an effort to comfort her.

We often resist strong emotions, especially at work, because they can increase stress in situations where we need to be in control. In high-emotion situations, our brain’s warning centers alert both body and brain. This has helped our ancestors to action over the millennia, but in the hospital, these responses hurt more than help. Our bodies amplifying the emotion, our mind races for solutions and we can feel overwhelmed.

Simply recognizing the emotion and naming it puts the brakes on this process. fMRI data demonstrate that naming the emotions moves the brain activity away from the emotion centers to the appraisal centers in the frontal lobe. Just the perspective to see the emotional process calms it down.

Name it to tame it – this is what those in the field call this act. “This is sadness,” I said to myself as I left Ms. A’s room.

Down the hall was Mr. D; he was an 81-year-old former Vietnamese refugee. He had come in 3 days prior to my coming on service. While he didn’t talk, even with an interpreter, he ate well and had looked comfortable for days on 50% O₂.

Ms. A’s O₂ needs crept up each day as did her anxiety, the plaintive tenor of her prayers and inquiries about going home. I got a priest to visit, not for last rites but just for some support. Over the phone, I updated the family on the prognosis.

A couple of days later, she needed 95% O₂ and with PO₂ was only 70. I told her family it seemed she was losing her battle with the virus. I said we could see how she did on 60% – that’s the max she could get at home with hospice. I called them after 2 hours on 60% to tell them she was up eating and despite slight increased resp rate, she looked okay. “Can you guarantee that she would not make it if she stayed in the hospital? “

My body vibrating with uncertainty – an emotional mix of fear and sadness – I said, “I am sorry, but this is such a new disease, I can’t say that for certain.” On the call, family members voiced different opinions, but in the end, they were unable to give up hope, so we agreed to keep her in hospital.

Down the hall, Mr. D had stopped eating and his sats dropped as did his blood pressure. A nurse exited his room; despite the mask and steamed-up glasses, I could read her body language. “That poor man is dying,” she said. I told her I agreed and called the family with the news and to offer them a chance to visit and to talk about home hospice.

“He has not seen any of us in 10 months,” said his daughter over the phone, “We would love to visit and talk about bringing him home on hospice.” The next morning four of his nine kids showed up with a quart of jook, an Asian rice porridge, for him and pastries for the staff.

They left the room smiling an hour later. “He ate all the jook and he smiled! Yes, let’s work on home with hospice.” That night his blood pressure was better, and we were able to move him to 8 liters oxymizer; the staff was excited by his improvement, too.

The next day Ms. A was less responsive with sats in the 80’s on 100% FiO₂, but she still had this great sense of warmth and dignity about her. When I entered the room, Spanish Catholic hymns were playing, two of her kids stood leaning over the bed and on an iPod, there was a chorus of tears. 20 family members were all crying on a Zoom call. Together this made the most beautiful soundtrack to an end of life I have ever heard. I tried hard not to join the chorus as we talked about turning off the oxygen to help limit her suffering.

We added a bolus of morphine to her drip and removed the oxygen. She looked more beautiful and peaceful without it. Briefly, she closed her eyes then opened them, her breathing calmer. And with the hymns and the chorus of family crying she lived another 20 minutes in the loving presence of her big family.

Leaving the room, I was flooded with “woulda, coulda, shouldas” that accompany work with so much uncertainty and high stakes. “Maybe I should have tried convalescent plasma. Maybe I should have told them she must go home,” and so on my mind went on looking for solutions when there were none. I turned to my body – my chest ached, and I whispered to myself: “This is how sadness feels.”

By thinking about how the emotion feels in the body, we move the mind away from problem solving that can end up leading to unhealthy ruminations. Such thoughts in times of high emotions lead to that pressurized, tightness feeling we get when overwhelmed. Taking in the universal sensations of the emotions is calming and connects us with these deep human experiences in healthy ways. At the same time, the racing and ruminations stop.

Meanwhile, down the hall, Mr. D’s family arrived in great spirits armed with more food for patient and staff. He was to go home later that day with hospice. When they saw him up in the chair without the oxygen, they said: “It is a miracle, Dr. Hass! He is going home on hospice but having beat COVID! We can’t thank you enough!”

“Don’t thank me! He was cured by love and jook! What a lesson for us all. Sometimes there is no better medicine than food from home and love!” With the explosive expansiveness of joy, we shared some “elbow bumps” and took some pictures before he was wheeled home.

Back at the nurse’s station, there were tears. Sometimes life is so full of emotion that it is hard to give it a name – joy? grief? Our bodies almost pulsing, our minds searching for words, it is as if an ancient process is marking a time and place in our souls. “This is what it is to be a human being living with love and creating meaning,” the experience seems to be telling us.

This is awesome work. In fact, awe was what we were feeling then – that sense of wonder we have in the presence of something beautiful or vast that we cannot easily comprehend. Taking in these moments of awe at the power and depth of the human experience is critical to keep us humble, engaged, and emotionally involved.

Cultivating emotional awareness is a simple technique to maintain equanimity as we do the emotionally turbulent work of caring for vulnerable and seriously ill members of our community. It uses the same techniques of attention and diagnosis we use on those we care for. It is a practice that can be seamlessly incorporated into our workday with no time added. Recognizing it, naming it, and feeling it will give us the resilience to handle the challenges this amazing work inevitably brings.

Dr. Hass is a hospitalist at Sutter East Bay Medical Group in Oakland, Calif. He is a member of the clinical faculty at the University of California, Berkeley–UC San Francisco joint medical program, and an adviser on health and health care at the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley.

Approaching the nursing unit, I heard the anxiety in my masked colleagues’ voices. I was starting another rotation on our COVID unit; this week I was trying to develop my emotional awareness in an effort to help with the stress of the job and, just as importantly, take in the moments of positive emotions when they arose. I was making a conscious effort to take in all I saw and felt in the same way I approached my patient examinations: my mind quiet, receptive, and curious.

Seeing my nursing teammates covered with personal protective equipment, I felt a little reverence at the purpose they bring to work. Thinking of our patients, isolated and scared in noisy, ventilated rooms, there was compassion welling up in my chest. Thinking about my role on the team, I felt humbled by the challenges of treating this new disease and meeting the needs of staff and patient.

A few years ago, a period of frustration and disaffectedness had led me to apply my diagnostic eye to myself: I was burning out. Developing a mindfulness practice has transformed my experience at work. Now, the pandemic pushed me to go beyond a few minutes of quieting the mind before work. I was developing my emotional awareness. A growing body of research suggests that emotional awareness helps temper the negative experiences and savor the good. This week on the COVID unit was an opportunity to put this idea to the test.

Across the hall from the desk was Ms. A, 85-year-old woman who always clutched her rosary. My Spanish is not great, but I understood her prayer when I entered the room. She had tested positive for COVID about 7 days before – so had all the people in her multigenerational home. Over the din of the negative-pressure machine, with damp eyes she kept saying she wanted to go home. I felt my body soften and, in my chest, it felt as if my heart moved towards her which is the manifestation of compassion. “I will do my best to get you there soon,” I said in an effort to comfort her.

We often resist strong emotions, especially at work, because they can increase stress in situations where we need to be in control. In high-emotion situations, our brain’s warning centers alert both body and brain. This has helped our ancestors to action over the millennia, but in the hospital, these responses hurt more than help. Our bodies amplifying the emotion, our mind races for solutions and we can feel overwhelmed.

Simply recognizing the emotion and naming it puts the brakes on this process. fMRI data demonstrate that naming the emotions moves the brain activity away from the emotion centers to the appraisal centers in the frontal lobe. Just the perspective to see the emotional process calms it down.

Name it to tame it – this is what those in the field call this act. “This is sadness,” I said to myself as I left Ms. A’s room.

Down the hall was Mr. D; he was an 81-year-old former Vietnamese refugee. He had come in 3 days prior to my coming on service. While he didn’t talk, even with an interpreter, he ate well and had looked comfortable for days on 50% O₂.

Ms. A’s O₂ needs crept up each day as did her anxiety, the plaintive tenor of her prayers and inquiries about going home. I got a priest to visit, not for last rites but just for some support. Over the phone, I updated the family on the prognosis.

A couple of days later, she needed 95% O₂ and with PO₂ was only 70. I told her family it seemed she was losing her battle with the virus. I said we could see how she did on 60% – that’s the max she could get at home with hospice. I called them after 2 hours on 60% to tell them she was up eating and despite slight increased resp rate, she looked okay. “Can you guarantee that she would not make it if she stayed in the hospital? “

My body vibrating with uncertainty – an emotional mix of fear and sadness – I said, “I am sorry, but this is such a new disease, I can’t say that for certain.” On the call, family members voiced different opinions, but in the end, they were unable to give up hope, so we agreed to keep her in hospital.

Down the hall, Mr. D had stopped eating and his sats dropped as did his blood pressure. A nurse exited his room; despite the mask and steamed-up glasses, I could read her body language. “That poor man is dying,” she said. I told her I agreed and called the family with the news and to offer them a chance to visit and to talk about home hospice.

“He has not seen any of us in 10 months,” said his daughter over the phone, “We would love to visit and talk about bringing him home on hospice.” The next morning four of his nine kids showed up with a quart of jook, an Asian rice porridge, for him and pastries for the staff.

They left the room smiling an hour later. “He ate all the jook and he smiled! Yes, let’s work on home with hospice.” That night his blood pressure was better, and we were able to move him to 8 liters oxymizer; the staff was excited by his improvement, too.

The next day Ms. A was less responsive with sats in the 80’s on 100% FiO₂, but she still had this great sense of warmth and dignity about her. When I entered the room, Spanish Catholic hymns were playing, two of her kids stood leaning over the bed and on an iPod, there was a chorus of tears. 20 family members were all crying on a Zoom call. Together this made the most beautiful soundtrack to an end of life I have ever heard. I tried hard not to join the chorus as we talked about turning off the oxygen to help limit her suffering.

We added a bolus of morphine to her drip and removed the oxygen. She looked more beautiful and peaceful without it. Briefly, she closed her eyes then opened them, her breathing calmer. And with the hymns and the chorus of family crying she lived another 20 minutes in the loving presence of her big family.

Leaving the room, I was flooded with “woulda, coulda, shouldas” that accompany work with so much uncertainty and high stakes. “Maybe I should have tried convalescent plasma. Maybe I should have told them she must go home,” and so on my mind went on looking for solutions when there were none. I turned to my body – my chest ached, and I whispered to myself: “This is how sadness feels.”

By thinking about how the emotion feels in the body, we move the mind away from problem solving that can end up leading to unhealthy ruminations. Such thoughts in times of high emotions lead to that pressurized, tightness feeling we get when overwhelmed. Taking in the universal sensations of the emotions is calming and connects us with these deep human experiences in healthy ways. At the same time, the racing and ruminations stop.

Meanwhile, down the hall, Mr. D’s family arrived in great spirits armed with more food for patient and staff. He was to go home later that day with hospice. When they saw him up in the chair without the oxygen, they said: “It is a miracle, Dr. Hass! He is going home on hospice but having beat COVID! We can’t thank you enough!”

“Don’t thank me! He was cured by love and jook! What a lesson for us all. Sometimes there is no better medicine than food from home and love!” With the explosive expansiveness of joy, we shared some “elbow bumps” and took some pictures before he was wheeled home.

Back at the nurse’s station, there were tears. Sometimes life is so full of emotion that it is hard to give it a name – joy? grief? Our bodies almost pulsing, our minds searching for words, it is as if an ancient process is marking a time and place in our souls. “This is what it is to be a human being living with love and creating meaning,” the experience seems to be telling us.

This is awesome work. In fact, awe was what we were feeling then – that sense of wonder we have in the presence of something beautiful or vast that we cannot easily comprehend. Taking in these moments of awe at the power and depth of the human experience is critical to keep us humble, engaged, and emotionally involved.

Cultivating emotional awareness is a simple technique to maintain equanimity as we do the emotionally turbulent work of caring for vulnerable and seriously ill members of our community. It uses the same techniques of attention and diagnosis we use on those we care for. It is a practice that can be seamlessly incorporated into our workday with no time added. Recognizing it, naming it, and feeling it will give us the resilience to handle the challenges this amazing work inevitably brings.

Dr. Hass is a hospitalist at Sutter East Bay Medical Group in Oakland, Calif. He is a member of the clinical faculty at the University of California, Berkeley–UC San Francisco joint medical program, and an adviser on health and health care at the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley.

Over the din of the negative pressure machine, I shouted goodbye to my patient and zipped my way out of one of the little plastic enclosures in our ED and carefully shed my gloves, gown, and face shield, leaving on my precious mask. I discarded the rest with disgust and a bit of fear. I thought, “This is a whole new world, and I hate it.”

I feel as if I am constantly battling the fear of dying from COVID-19 but am doing the best I can, given the circumstances at hand. I have the proper equipment and use it well. My work still brings meaning: I serve those in need without hesitation. The problem is that deep feeling of connection with patients, which is such an important part of this work, feels like fraying threads moving further apart because of the havoc this virus has wrought. A few weeks ago, the intricate fabric of what it is to be human connected me to patients through the basics: touch, facial expressions, a physical proximity, and openhearted, honest dialogue. Much of that’s gone, and while I can carry on, I will surely burn out if I can’t figure out how to get at least some of that connection back.

Overwhelmed by the amount of information I need to process daily, I had not been thinking about the interpersonal side of the pandemic for the first weeks. I felt it leaving the ED that morning and later that day, and I felt it again with Ms. Z, who was not even suspected of having COVID. She is a 62-year-old I interviewed with the help of a translator phone. At the end of our encounter, she said “But doctor, will you make my tumor go away?” From across the room, I said, “I will try.” I saw her eyes dampen as I made a hasty exit, following protocol to limit time in the room of all patients.

Typically, leaving a patient’s room, I would feel a fullness associated with a sense of meaning. How did I feel after that? In that moment, mostly ashamed at my lack of compassion during my time with Ms. Z. Then, with further reflection, tense from all things COVID-19! Having an amped-up sympathetic nervous system is understandable, but it’s not where we want to be for our compassion to flow.

We connect best when our parasympathetic nervous system is predominant. So much of the stimuli we need to activate that part of the nervous system is gone. There is a virtuous cycle, much of it unconscious, where something positive leads to more positivity, which is crucial to meaningful patient encounters. We read each other’s facial expressions, hear the tone of voice, and as we pick up subtle cues from our patient, our nervous system is further engaged and our hearts opened.

The specter of COVID-19 has us battling a negative spiral of stress and fear. For the most part, I try to keep that from consuming me, but it clearly saps my energy during encounters. In the same way we need to marshal our resources to battle both the stress and the disease itself, we need to actively engage pro-social elements of providing care to maintain our compassion. Clearly, I needed a more concerted effort to kick start this virtuous cycle of compassion.

My next patient was Ms. J., a 55-year-old with advanced chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) who came in the night before with shortness of breath. Her slight frame shook from coughing as I entered the room. I did not think she had COVID-19, but we were ruling it out.

We reviewed how she felt since admission, and I performed a hasty exam and stepped back across the room. She coughed again and said, “I feel so weak, and the world feels so crazy; tell it to me straight.” Then looking in my eyes, “I am going to make it, doc?”

I took my cue from her; I walked back to the bedside, placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and with the other, I took her hand. I bent forward just a little. Making eye contact and attempting a comforting tone of voice, I said, “Everyone is a little scared, including me. We need each other more than ever these days. We will do our best for you. That means thoughtful medical care and a whole lot of love! And, truly, I don’t think you are dying; this is just one of your COPD flares.”

“God bless you!” she said, squeezing my hand as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Bless you, too. We all need blessing with this madness going on,” I replied. Despite the mask, I am sure she saw the smile in my eyes. “Thanks for being the beautiful person you are and opening up to me. That’s the way we will make it through this. I will see you tomorrow.” Backing away, hands together in prayer, I gave a little bow and left the room.

With Ms. J.’s help, I began to figure it out. To tackle the stress of COVID, we need to be very direct – almost to the point of exaggeration – to make sure our words and actions convey what we need to express. William James, the father of psychology, believed that if you force a smile, your emotions would follow. The neural pathways could work backward in that way. He said, “If you want a quality, act as if you have it.” The modern translation would be, “Fake it ’til you make it.’ ” You may be feeling stressed, but with a deep breath and a moment’s reflection on the suffering of that patient you are about to see, you can turn the tide on anxiety and give those under your care what they need.

These are unprecedented times; anxiety abounds. While we can aspire to positivity, there are times when we simply can’t muster showing it. Alternatively, as I experienced with Ms. J., honesty and vulnerability can open the door to meaningful connection. This can be quite powerful when we, as physicians, open up to our patients.

People are yearning for deep connection, and we should attempt to deliver it with:

• Touch (as we can) to convey connection.
• Body language that adds emphasis to our message and our emotions that may go above and beyond what we are used to.
• Tone of voice that enhances our words.
• Talk that emphasizes the big stuff, such as love, fear, connection and community

With gloves, masks, distance, and fear between and us and our patients, we need to actively engage our pro-social tools to turn the negative spiral of fear into the virtuous cycle of positive emotions that promotes healing of our patients and emotional engagement for those providing their care.
 

Dr. Hass was trained in family medicine at University of California, San Francisco, after receiving his medical degree from the McGill University faculty of medicine, Montreal. He works as a hospitalist with Sutter Health in Oakland, Calif. He is an adviser on health and health care for the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley and clinical faculty at UCSF School of Medicine. This article appeared initially at The Hospital Leader, the official blog of SHM.

Over the din of the negative pressure machine, I shouted goodbye to my patient and zipped my way out of one of the little plastic enclosures in our ED and carefully shed my gloves, gown, and face shield, leaving on my precious mask. I discarded the rest with disgust and a bit of fear. I thought, “This is a whole new world, and I hate it.”

I feel as if I am constantly battling the fear of dying from COVID-19 but am doing the best I can, given the circumstances at hand. I have the proper equipment and use it well. My work still brings meaning: I serve those in need without hesitation. The problem is that deep feeling of connection with patients, which is such an important part of this work, feels like fraying threads moving further apart because of the havoc this virus has wrought. A few weeks ago, the intricate fabric of what it is to be human connected me to patients through the basics: touch, facial expressions, a physical proximity, and openhearted, honest dialogue. Much of that’s gone, and while I can carry on, I will surely burn out if I can’t figure out how to get at least some of that connection back.

Overwhelmed by the amount of information I need to process daily, I had not been thinking about the interpersonal side of the pandemic for the first weeks. I felt it leaving the ED that morning and later that day, and I felt it again with Ms. Z, who was not even suspected of having COVID. She is a 62-year-old I interviewed with the help of a translator phone. At the end of our encounter, she said “But doctor, will you make my tumor go away?” From across the room, I said, “I will try.” I saw her eyes dampen as I made a hasty exit, following protocol to limit time in the room of all patients.

Typically, leaving a patient’s room, I would feel a fullness associated with a sense of meaning. How did I feel after that? In that moment, mostly ashamed at my lack of compassion during my time with Ms. Z. Then, with further reflection, tense from all things COVID-19! Having an amped-up sympathetic nervous system is understandable, but it’s not where we want to be for our compassion to flow.

We connect best when our parasympathetic nervous system is predominant. So much of the stimuli we need to activate that part of the nervous system is gone. There is a virtuous cycle, much of it unconscious, where something positive leads to more positivity, which is crucial to meaningful patient encounters. We read each other’s facial expressions, hear the tone of voice, and as we pick up subtle cues from our patient, our nervous system is further engaged and our hearts opened.

The specter of COVID-19 has us battling a negative spiral of stress and fear. For the most part, I try to keep that from consuming me, but it clearly saps my energy during encounters. In the same way we need to marshal our resources to battle both the stress and the disease itself, we need to actively engage pro-social elements of providing care to maintain our compassion. Clearly, I needed a more concerted effort to kick start this virtuous cycle of compassion.

My next patient was Ms. J., a 55-year-old with advanced chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) who came in the night before with shortness of breath. Her slight frame shook from coughing as I entered the room. I did not think she had COVID-19, but we were ruling it out.

We reviewed how she felt since admission, and I performed a hasty exam and stepped back across the room. She coughed again and said, “I feel so weak, and the world feels so crazy; tell it to me straight.” Then looking in my eyes, “I am going to make it, doc?”

I took my cue from her; I walked back to the bedside, placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and with the other, I took her hand. I bent forward just a little. Making eye contact and attempting a comforting tone of voice, I said, “Everyone is a little scared, including me. We need each other more than ever these days. We will do our best for you. That means thoughtful medical care and a whole lot of love! And, truly, I don’t think you are dying; this is just one of your COPD flares.”

“God bless you!” she said, squeezing my hand as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Bless you, too. We all need blessing with this madness going on,” I replied. Despite the mask, I am sure she saw the smile in my eyes. “Thanks for being the beautiful person you are and opening up to me. That’s the way we will make it through this. I will see you tomorrow.” Backing away, hands together in prayer, I gave a little bow and left the room.

With Ms. J.’s help, I began to figure it out. To tackle the stress of COVID, we need to be very direct – almost to the point of exaggeration – to make sure our words and actions convey what we need to express. William James, the father of psychology, believed that if you force a smile, your emotions would follow. The neural pathways could work backward in that way. He said, “If you want a quality, act as if you have it.” The modern translation would be, “Fake it ’til you make it.’ ” You may be feeling stressed, but with a deep breath and a moment’s reflection on the suffering of that patient you are about to see, you can turn the tide on anxiety and give those under your care what they need.

These are unprecedented times; anxiety abounds. While we can aspire to positivity, there are times when we simply can’t muster showing it. Alternatively, as I experienced with Ms. J., honesty and vulnerability can open the door to meaningful connection. This can be quite powerful when we, as physicians, open up to our patients.

People are yearning for deep connection, and we should attempt to deliver it with:

• Touch (as we can) to convey connection.
• Body language that adds emphasis to our message and our emotions that may go above and beyond what we are used to.
• Tone of voice that enhances our words.
• Talk that emphasizes the big stuff, such as love, fear, connection and community

With gloves, masks, distance, and fear between and us and our patients, we need to actively engage our pro-social tools to turn the negative spiral of fear into the virtuous cycle of positive emotions that promotes healing of our patients and emotional engagement for those providing their care.
 

Dr. Hass was trained in family medicine at University of California, San Francisco, after receiving his medical degree from the McGill University faculty of medicine, Montreal. He works as a hospitalist with Sutter Health in Oakland, Calif. He is an adviser on health and health care for the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley and clinical faculty at UCSF School of Medicine. This article appeared initially at The Hospital Leader, the official blog of SHM.

Over the din of the negative pressure machine, I shouted goodbye to my patient and zipped my way out of one of the little plastic enclosures in our ED and carefully shed my gloves, gown, and face shield, leaving on my precious mask. I discarded the rest with disgust and a bit of fear. I thought, “This is a whole new world, and I hate it.”

I feel as if I am constantly battling the fear of dying from COVID-19 but am doing the best I can, given the circumstances at hand. I have the proper equipment and use it well. My work still brings meaning: I serve those in need without hesitation. The problem is that deep feeling of connection with patients, which is such an important part of this work, feels like fraying threads moving further apart because of the havoc this virus has wrought. A few weeks ago, the intricate fabric of what it is to be human connected me to patients through the basics: touch, facial expressions, a physical proximity, and openhearted, honest dialogue. Much of that’s gone, and while I can carry on, I will surely burn out if I can’t figure out how to get at least some of that connection back.

Overwhelmed by the amount of information I need to process daily, I had not been thinking about the interpersonal side of the pandemic for the first weeks. I felt it leaving the ED that morning and later that day, and I felt it again with Ms. Z, who was not even suspected of having COVID. She is a 62-year-old I interviewed with the help of a translator phone. At the end of our encounter, she said “But doctor, will you make my tumor go away?” From across the room, I said, “I will try.” I saw her eyes dampen as I made a hasty exit, following protocol to limit time in the room of all patients.

Typically, leaving a patient’s room, I would feel a fullness associated with a sense of meaning. How did I feel after that? In that moment, mostly ashamed at my lack of compassion during my time with Ms. Z. Then, with further reflection, tense from all things COVID-19! Having an amped-up sympathetic nervous system is understandable, but it’s not where we want to be for our compassion to flow.

We connect best when our parasympathetic nervous system is predominant. So much of the stimuli we need to activate that part of the nervous system is gone. There is a virtuous cycle, much of it unconscious, where something positive leads to more positivity, which is crucial to meaningful patient encounters. We read each other’s facial expressions, hear the tone of voice, and as we pick up subtle cues from our patient, our nervous system is further engaged and our hearts opened.

The specter of COVID-19 has us battling a negative spiral of stress and fear. For the most part, I try to keep that from consuming me, but it clearly saps my energy during encounters. In the same way we need to marshal our resources to battle both the stress and the disease itself, we need to actively engage pro-social elements of providing care to maintain our compassion. Clearly, I needed a more concerted effort to kick start this virtuous cycle of compassion.

My next patient was Ms. J., a 55-year-old with advanced chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) who came in the night before with shortness of breath. Her slight frame shook from coughing as I entered the room. I did not think she had COVID-19, but we were ruling it out.

We reviewed how she felt since admission, and I performed a hasty exam and stepped back across the room. She coughed again and said, “I feel so weak, and the world feels so crazy; tell it to me straight.” Then looking in my eyes, “I am going to make it, doc?”

I took my cue from her; I walked back to the bedside, placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and with the other, I took her hand. I bent forward just a little. Making eye contact and attempting a comforting tone of voice, I said, “Everyone is a little scared, including me. We need each other more than ever these days. We will do our best for you. That means thoughtful medical care and a whole lot of love! And, truly, I don’t think you are dying; this is just one of your COPD flares.”

“God bless you!” she said, squeezing my hand as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Bless you, too. We all need blessing with this madness going on,” I replied. Despite the mask, I am sure she saw the smile in my eyes. “Thanks for being the beautiful person you are and opening up to me. That’s the way we will make it through this. I will see you tomorrow.” Backing away, hands together in prayer, I gave a little bow and left the room.

With Ms. J.’s help, I began to figure it out. To tackle the stress of COVID, we need to be very direct – almost to the point of exaggeration – to make sure our words and actions convey what we need to express. William James, the father of psychology, believed that if you force a smile, your emotions would follow. The neural pathways could work backward in that way. He said, “If you want a quality, act as if you have it.” The modern translation would be, “Fake it ’til you make it.’ ” You may be feeling stressed, but with a deep breath and a moment’s reflection on the suffering of that patient you are about to see, you can turn the tide on anxiety and give those under your care what they need.

These are unprecedented times; anxiety abounds. While we can aspire to positivity, there are times when we simply can’t muster showing it. Alternatively, as I experienced with Ms. J., honesty and vulnerability can open the door to meaningful connection. This can be quite powerful when we, as physicians, open up to our patients.

People are yearning for deep connection, and we should attempt to deliver it with:

• Touch (as we can) to convey connection.
• Body language that adds emphasis to our message and our emotions that may go above and beyond what we are used to.
• Tone of voice that enhances our words.
• Talk that emphasizes the big stuff, such as love, fear, connection and community

With gloves, masks, distance, and fear between and us and our patients, we need to actively engage our pro-social tools to turn the negative spiral of fear into the virtuous cycle of positive emotions that promotes healing of our patients and emotional engagement for those providing their care.
 

Dr. Hass was trained in family medicine at University of California, San Francisco, after receiving his medical degree from the McGill University faculty of medicine, Montreal. He works as a hospitalist with Sutter Health in Oakland, Calif. He is an adviser on health and health care for the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley and clinical faculty at UCSF School of Medicine. This article appeared initially at The Hospital Leader, the official blog of SHM.

I rush into the room at 4:30 p.m., hoping for a quick visit and maybe an early exit from the hospital; I had been asked to see Mr. Bryant in room 6765 with sigmoid volvulus.

“Hey, Dr. Hass, my brother!” he says with a huge smile. Somehow, he must have gotten a glimpse of me before I could see him. I peek over the nurse’s shoulder, and then I see that unforgettable smile with only a few teeth and big bright eyes. Immediately I recognize him and think, “How could I have forgotten his name? Ray – like a beam of light.” He certainly had not forgotten me.

“It’s been more than a year since I was last here,” he says proudly.

When we met during his last hospitalization, I was struck by a thought that implanted itself deep in my brain: This guy is the happiest person I have ever met. And after what must have been 18 hard months for him, he is still smiling – and more than that, he is radiating love.

The fact that he is the “happiest person” is made more remarkable by all the hardship he has endured. Ray was born with cerebral palsy and didn’t walk until he was 10. The continuous spasms in his muscles led to severe cervical disc disease. His worsening pain and weakness were missed by his health care providers until he had lost significant strength in his hands and legs. When he finally got an MRI and then emergency surgery, it was too late. He never regained the dexterity of his hands or the ability to walk. He can climb onto his scooter chair only with the help of a lift.

“Wow! How you been, Ray?”

He replies with a phrase that jumped back out from my memory as he was saying it: “I just wake up every day and think about what I can do to make people happy.”

The goosebumps rise on my arms; I remember feeling this same sense of awe the last time we met – a feeling of real spiritual love for this guy.

“Today I feel so much better, too. I want to thank y’all who helped my stomach go down. Man, it got so huge, I thought I might blow up.” One of the consequences of the nerve damage he sustained is a very slow gut that has led to a stretched-out colon. The other day, his big, floppy colon got twisted, and neither our gastroenterologist nor radiologist was able to untwist it. He still has a tube in his rectum to help decompress his bowel.

Ray fills me in on the details in the slightly strained and slurred speech that sometimes comes with cerebral palsy. As he relays his story, my mind goes to work trying to diagnosis this mysterious case of happiness. How can I not try to get to the origins of this wellspring of love? I can’t help but thinking: Was it Ray’s joy and his speech impediment that made him seem childlike, or was it some brain injury that blessedly knocked out his self-pity? I would be wallowing in self-pity if I were as gravely disabled as him.

After a moment’s reflection, I recall the research on the amazing stability of our happiness set point: Good things and bad only move our happiness for a while before we return to our innate level of happiness. I see I had likely fallen prey to a stereotype of the disabled as heroic for just being themselves. Ray’s happiness is largely because of his lack of self-absorption and his focus on service and love.

Finishing our conversation and leaving the room feeling enlivened, I realize that Ray‘s generous spirit is a gift.

That night, my heart aches. I think about the inadequate care that led to Ray’s profound loss of function, leading to a surge of anger toward our flawed health care system – one that routinely lets down the most vulnerable among us.

The next day, two sisters and an aunt join Ray in his room. They ask for hugs, and I happily supply them. “Ray told us about you,” says Sheila, one of his sisters.

“Well, we have been talking about him here at the hospital, because he brightens everyone’s day. He is truly amazing. Has Ray always been so full of love?” I say, hoping to get some insight into his remarkable spirit.

Tonya, his aunt, responds first. “We were raised that way – to look for the good and keep love in our hearts. But Ray has always been the best. He never, ever complains. He brings joy to so many people. You should see him every day out on his scooter. That’s how he got that big sore on his butt.”

Ray indeed had developed a pressure sore, one that was going to need some thoughtful, ongoing care.

“But I finally got the right kind of cushion, before it was real hard,” he says.

I move from hospitalist mode to primary care mode and ask about his home equipment and his dental care. But they all want to keep talking about love.

“If doctors showed more love and their human side, they could bring more healing,” his sister says.

After 20 minutes of chatting, I pause. It is my last day on service, I had run out of medical reason to stay and I have others to see. So, I reluctantly give my goodbye hugs and leave. At the door, I turn back around. “Hey, Ray, can I get a picture with you?”

“Yeah, I want one with you, too!”

So, not surprisingly, Ray never complains. Maybe his spinal cord injury wasn’t from negligent care. Maybe he was so accustomed to looking past discomfort and too busy with his ministry of love, it didn’t occur to him to seek care.

Still, such a tragedy that he lost so much of the little mobility he did have. But maybe not so bad. His injury brought him back in contact with me and our staff. He is still waking up trying to make people happy and I can see his efforts are working. “He made my day!” I hear from a nurse. There is a healthy buzz at the nurses’ station after visits to his room.

Before walking out the door, he gives me an awkward fist bump from the bed and says, “I want to thank y’all again for everything. And I want you to know I love you.”

I find myself tearing up. “I love you too, my brother. And I am the one who should be grateful, Ray.” Saying it, I feel myself playing a part in the cycle of gratitude. Even small gifts put us under an obligation to give back. With great gifts, the desire to give is inescapable.

There is only one Ray, but he has given me something to aspire toward and what feels like urgency to do it. I want to “wake up each day thinking about ways to make other people happy.”

And understanding the potency of the gift from him has alerted me to the value of looking for other gifts and other inspirations from those I care for – something those of us who tend to be in the “doing” part of the provider-patient relationship can easy miss.

I will never be the beacon of light and love that Ray is, but being compelled to be my most authentic caring self with him, I see that for years I have held back – in the name of professionalism – the positive emotions that naturally arise from the work I do. I will try to shine and try to connect with that “Ray of light” residing in all my patients. I hope, too, that the cycle of giving Ray started will continue spreading to all those I care for.

Dr. Hass is a hospitalist at Sutter Health in Oakland, Calif. This article appeared originally in SHM's official blog The Hospital Leader. Read more recent posts here.

I rush into the room at 4:30 p.m., hoping for a quick visit and maybe an early exit from the hospital; I had been asked to see Mr. Bryant in room 6765 with sigmoid volvulus.

“Hey, Dr. Hass, my brother!” he says with a huge smile. Somehow, he must have gotten a glimpse of me before I could see him. I peek over the nurse’s shoulder, and then I see that unforgettable smile with only a few teeth and big bright eyes. Immediately I recognize him and think, “How could I have forgotten his name? Ray – like a beam of light.” He certainly had not forgotten me.

“It’s been more than a year since I was last here,” he says proudly.

When we met during his last hospitalization, I was struck by a thought that implanted itself deep in my brain: This guy is the happiest person I have ever met. And after what must have been 18 hard months for him, he is still smiling – and more than that, he is radiating love.

The fact that he is the “happiest person” is made more remarkable by all the hardship he has endured. Ray was born with cerebral palsy and didn’t walk until he was 10. The continuous spasms in his muscles led to severe cervical disc disease. His worsening pain and weakness were missed by his health care providers until he had lost significant strength in his hands and legs. When he finally got an MRI and then emergency surgery, it was too late. He never regained the dexterity of his hands or the ability to walk. He can climb onto his scooter chair only with the help of a lift.

“Wow! How you been, Ray?”

He replies with a phrase that jumped back out from my memory as he was saying it: “I just wake up every day and think about what I can do to make people happy.”

The goosebumps rise on my arms; I remember feeling this same sense of awe the last time we met – a feeling of real spiritual love for this guy.

“Today I feel so much better, too. I want to thank y’all who helped my stomach go down. Man, it got so huge, I thought I might blow up.” One of the consequences of the nerve damage he sustained is a very slow gut that has led to a stretched-out colon. The other day, his big, floppy colon got twisted, and neither our gastroenterologist nor radiologist was able to untwist it. He still has a tube in his rectum to help decompress his bowel.

Ray fills me in on the details in the slightly strained and slurred speech that sometimes comes with cerebral palsy. As he relays his story, my mind goes to work trying to diagnosis this mysterious case of happiness. How can I not try to get to the origins of this wellspring of love? I can’t help but thinking: Was it Ray’s joy and his speech impediment that made him seem childlike, or was it some brain injury that blessedly knocked out his self-pity? I would be wallowing in self-pity if I were as gravely disabled as him.

After a moment’s reflection, I recall the research on the amazing stability of our happiness set point: Good things and bad only move our happiness for a while before we return to our innate level of happiness. I see I had likely fallen prey to a stereotype of the disabled as heroic for just being themselves. Ray’s happiness is largely because of his lack of self-absorption and his focus on service and love.

Finishing our conversation and leaving the room feeling enlivened, I realize that Ray‘s generous spirit is a gift.

That night, my heart aches. I think about the inadequate care that led to Ray’s profound loss of function, leading to a surge of anger toward our flawed health care system – one that routinely lets down the most vulnerable among us.

The next day, two sisters and an aunt join Ray in his room. They ask for hugs, and I happily supply them. “Ray told us about you,” says Sheila, one of his sisters.

“Well, we have been talking about him here at the hospital, because he brightens everyone’s day. He is truly amazing. Has Ray always been so full of love?” I say, hoping to get some insight into his remarkable spirit.

Tonya, his aunt, responds first. “We were raised that way – to look for the good and keep love in our hearts. But Ray has always been the best. He never, ever complains. He brings joy to so many people. You should see him every day out on his scooter. That’s how he got that big sore on his butt.”

Ray indeed had developed a pressure sore, one that was going to need some thoughtful, ongoing care.

“But I finally got the right kind of cushion, before it was real hard,” he says.

I move from hospitalist mode to primary care mode and ask about his home equipment and his dental care. But they all want to keep talking about love.

“If doctors showed more love and their human side, they could bring more healing,” his sister says.

After 20 minutes of chatting, I pause. It is my last day on service, I had run out of medical reason to stay and I have others to see. So, I reluctantly give my goodbye hugs and leave. At the door, I turn back around. “Hey, Ray, can I get a picture with you?”

“Yeah, I want one with you, too!”

So, not surprisingly, Ray never complains. Maybe his spinal cord injury wasn’t from negligent care. Maybe he was so accustomed to looking past discomfort and too busy with his ministry of love, it didn’t occur to him to seek care.

Still, such a tragedy that he lost so much of the little mobility he did have. But maybe not so bad. His injury brought him back in contact with me and our staff. He is still waking up trying to make people happy and I can see his efforts are working. “He made my day!” I hear from a nurse. There is a healthy buzz at the nurses’ station after visits to his room.

Before walking out the door, he gives me an awkward fist bump from the bed and says, “I want to thank y’all again for everything. And I want you to know I love you.”

I find myself tearing up. “I love you too, my brother. And I am the one who should be grateful, Ray.” Saying it, I feel myself playing a part in the cycle of gratitude. Even small gifts put us under an obligation to give back. With great gifts, the desire to give is inescapable.

There is only one Ray, but he has given me something to aspire toward and what feels like urgency to do it. I want to “wake up each day thinking about ways to make other people happy.”

And understanding the potency of the gift from him has alerted me to the value of looking for other gifts and other inspirations from those I care for – something those of us who tend to be in the “doing” part of the provider-patient relationship can easy miss.

I will never be the beacon of light and love that Ray is, but being compelled to be my most authentic caring self with him, I see that for years I have held back – in the name of professionalism – the positive emotions that naturally arise from the work I do. I will try to shine and try to connect with that “Ray of light” residing in all my patients. I hope, too, that the cycle of giving Ray started will continue spreading to all those I care for.

Dr. Hass is a hospitalist at Sutter Health in Oakland, Calif. This article appeared originally in SHM's official blog The Hospital Leader. Read more recent posts here.

I rush into the room at 4:30 p.m., hoping for a quick visit and maybe an early exit from the hospital; I had been asked to see Mr. Bryant in room 6765 with sigmoid volvulus.

“Hey, Dr. Hass, my brother!” he says with a huge smile. Somehow, he must have gotten a glimpse of me before I could see him. I peek over the nurse’s shoulder, and then I see that unforgettable smile with only a few teeth and big bright eyes. Immediately I recognize him and think, “How could I have forgotten his name? Ray – like a beam of light.” He certainly had not forgotten me.

“It’s been more than a year since I was last here,” he says proudly.

When we met during his last hospitalization, I was struck by a thought that implanted itself deep in my brain: This guy is the happiest person I have ever met. And after what must have been 18 hard months for him, he is still smiling – and more than that, he is radiating love.

The fact that he is the “happiest person” is made more remarkable by all the hardship he has endured. Ray was born with cerebral palsy and didn’t walk until he was 10. The continuous spasms in his muscles led to severe cervical disc disease. His worsening pain and weakness were missed by his health care providers until he had lost significant strength in his hands and legs. When he finally got an MRI and then emergency surgery, it was too late. He never regained the dexterity of his hands or the ability to walk. He can climb onto his scooter chair only with the help of a lift.

“Wow! How you been, Ray?”

He replies with a phrase that jumped back out from my memory as he was saying it: “I just wake up every day and think about what I can do to make people happy.”

The goosebumps rise on my arms; I remember feeling this same sense of awe the last time we met – a feeling of real spiritual love for this guy.

“Today I feel so much better, too. I want to thank y’all who helped my stomach go down. Man, it got so huge, I thought I might blow up.” One of the consequences of the nerve damage he sustained is a very slow gut that has led to a stretched-out colon. The other day, his big, floppy colon got twisted, and neither our gastroenterologist nor radiologist was able to untwist it. He still has a tube in his rectum to help decompress his bowel.

Ray fills me in on the details in the slightly strained and slurred speech that sometimes comes with cerebral palsy. As he relays his story, my mind goes to work trying to diagnosis this mysterious case of happiness. How can I not try to get to the origins of this wellspring of love? I can’t help but thinking: Was it Ray’s joy and his speech impediment that made him seem childlike, or was it some brain injury that blessedly knocked out his self-pity? I would be wallowing in self-pity if I were as gravely disabled as him.

After a moment’s reflection, I recall the research on the amazing stability of our happiness set point: Good things and bad only move our happiness for a while before we return to our innate level of happiness. I see I had likely fallen prey to a stereotype of the disabled as heroic for just being themselves. Ray’s happiness is largely because of his lack of self-absorption and his focus on service and love.

Finishing our conversation and leaving the room feeling enlivened, I realize that Ray‘s generous spirit is a gift.

That night, my heart aches. I think about the inadequate care that led to Ray’s profound loss of function, leading to a surge of anger toward our flawed health care system – one that routinely lets down the most vulnerable among us.

The next day, two sisters and an aunt join Ray in his room. They ask for hugs, and I happily supply them. “Ray told us about you,” says Sheila, one of his sisters.

“Well, we have been talking about him here at the hospital, because he brightens everyone’s day. He is truly amazing. Has Ray always been so full of love?” I say, hoping to get some insight into his remarkable spirit.

Tonya, his aunt, responds first. “We were raised that way – to look for the good and keep love in our hearts. But Ray has always been the best. He never, ever complains. He brings joy to so many people. You should see him every day out on his scooter. That’s how he got that big sore on his butt.”

Ray indeed had developed a pressure sore, one that was going to need some thoughtful, ongoing care.

“But I finally got the right kind of cushion, before it was real hard,” he says.

I move from hospitalist mode to primary care mode and ask about his home equipment and his dental care. But they all want to keep talking about love.

“If doctors showed more love and their human side, they could bring more healing,” his sister says.

After 20 minutes of chatting, I pause. It is my last day on service, I had run out of medical reason to stay and I have others to see. So, I reluctantly give my goodbye hugs and leave. At the door, I turn back around. “Hey, Ray, can I get a picture with you?”

“Yeah, I want one with you, too!”

So, not surprisingly, Ray never complains. Maybe his spinal cord injury wasn’t from negligent care. Maybe he was so accustomed to looking past discomfort and too busy with his ministry of love, it didn’t occur to him to seek care.

Still, such a tragedy that he lost so much of the little mobility he did have. But maybe not so bad. His injury brought him back in contact with me and our staff. He is still waking up trying to make people happy and I can see his efforts are working. “He made my day!” I hear from a nurse. There is a healthy buzz at the nurses’ station after visits to his room.

Before walking out the door, he gives me an awkward fist bump from the bed and says, “I want to thank y’all again for everything. And I want you to know I love you.”

I find myself tearing up. “I love you too, my brother. And I am the one who should be grateful, Ray.” Saying it, I feel myself playing a part in the cycle of gratitude. Even small gifts put us under an obligation to give back. With great gifts, the desire to give is inescapable.

There is only one Ray, but he has given me something to aspire toward and what feels like urgency to do it. I want to “wake up each day thinking about ways to make other people happy.”

And understanding the potency of the gift from him has alerted me to the value of looking for other gifts and other inspirations from those I care for – something those of us who tend to be in the “doing” part of the provider-patient relationship can easy miss.

I will never be the beacon of light and love that Ray is, but being compelled to be my most authentic caring self with him, I see that for years I have held back – in the name of professionalism – the positive emotions that naturally arise from the work I do. I will try to shine and try to connect with that “Ray of light” residing in all my patients. I hope, too, that the cycle of giving Ray started will continue spreading to all those I care for.

Dr. Hass is a hospitalist at Sutter Health in Oakland, Calif. This article appeared originally in SHM's official blog The Hospital Leader. Read more recent posts here.