I listened intently as the doctor described the procedure. "We'll remove a chunk from here," she said, pointing to a quick sketch she'd made. Internally I winced. "Chunk" she'd said, referring to a piece of her, and not just any piece. It was a part of what made her feel like a woman, a part that had nourished her children and now housed a dangerous lump.
This exchange made me consider my own word choices when I refer to my work. There are 2 vocabularies that intertwine- the clinical and the personal. Each serves its purpose and has its place and time. The clinical allows me to focus on the task of preparation. The decedent is "remains", and I refer to their state in scientific terms. I attempt to stay mentally distanced, so as not to cloud my mind, and distract from the tasks at hand.
And then there are the person words. I use their name and they are a "loved one" or (insert relationship). I hear the stories and allow myself to envision this life as it is explained to me. The two worlds can then collide in a manageable way. In this moment, the doctor's words felt like an imbalance, with the clinical lens inserting itself into a personal conversation. I wonder if she even realized that.
The need to insert distance is not apathy, but the truest form of compassion that I can muster. It is what grants me the ability to do my best possible job when I care for decedents. They are always beloved people, but for a brief moment, I need them to be my subjects. I will get to know them a little later, through the stories, and many photos. This allows my heart and manner to be warm even when my hands are not. I hope this doctor someday realizes the importance of knowing what words to use.
~For Mom
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