Compassion can come from many places. A person telling you that you dropped your wallet on the street, for example. However, it means the most when compassion comes from someone you love and trust. Empathy, kindness, encouragement, and everything else compassion stands for are vital in any relationship.
In 1968 I was born the second oldest of four children in small town New Jersey. As I
grew older I started to struggle with severe depression and anxiety, which I still live with today.
In the 80s mental illness was way more taboo than it is today, so on top of feeling awful all the time, I didn’t know how to cope with what I was going through. Eventually I went to a psychiatrist, and then many psychiatrists. All of which did not make me feel any better, in fact these experiences made me feel worse.
After high school, I was too sick to go to college. Instead, I decided to move to New York City. A year or two later my mental illness had not gotten much easier to deal with, and on top of that I was a single mother. However, now I had direction. I had something to work towards, because I had decided to become a doctor. I wanted to be a psychiatrist, to help those who were struggling like me. I had decided to become the person that I needed most when I was young.
I threw myself into my studies at community college, then moved to Baltimore to attend Johns Hopkins. I met my husband as an undergrad, he was a teaching aid in my biology class. We stayed together through my college years, and then got married while I was in med school. My depression had not faded, but now I had learned new ways to cope and deal with my sickness. Everything was on track until I had to go through residency.
Residency is where a med school graduate works at a hospital to gain skills in an actual work environment before they can start working for real. While I was in residency, a woman had an invasive surgery that she didn’t need. The radiologist who ordered the surgery said that I had told him to do this, which was absolutely crazy because I was just an intern. My job was to learn and help out with small tasks, not to make important medical decisions for patients. Nonetheless, the entire department believed him and not me. I got in so much trouble there was a big meeting where all of my superiors talked about what to do about me.
Unsurprisingly, nobody at the meeting was on my side. They all voted to kick me out of the department. A meeting with the chief of the department of medicine was scheduled. This all would have been very stressful for a healthy person to deal with, but my anxiety made this a very very difficult time.
Finally the day of the meeting came. I got there early and was trying to hold myself
together in the parking lot. Against all odds I had gotten this far, and it was all about to be taken away. On my way there I had called my husband, just to get some reassurance, and as I was waiting he pulled into the parking lot. He had driven two hours from work to meet me. He told me that I was a good person and that no matter what everything would be OK. His compassion was the only thing that gave me the strength to go into that meeting.
I walked into the office and heard the chief say that he did not think that I should be allowed to stay in the program. However, the chief continued to say that the psychiatry department had stepped in and that I would just be moved to another part of the hospital.
The only reason I could enter the office was because of that moment of compassion and encouragement in the parking lot. Hearing the news was not half as hard as stepping foot inside the building. Reassurance from someone I loved helped me do that. Compassion can come from anywhere, but it means the most if it is from someone you love.
In 1968 I was born the second oldest of four children in small town New Jersey. As I
grew older I started to struggle with severe depression and anxiety, which I still live with today.
In the 80s mental illness was way more taboo than it is today, so on top of feeling awful all the time, I didn’t know how to cope with what I was going through. Eventually I went to a psychiatrist, and then many psychiatrists. All of which did not make me feel any better, in fact these experiences made me feel worse.
After high school, I was too sick to go to college. Instead, I decided to move to New York City. A year or two later my mental illness had not gotten much easier to deal with, and on top of that I was a single mother. However, now I had direction. I had something to work towards, because I had decided to become a doctor. I wanted to be a psychiatrist, to help those who were struggling like me. I had decided to become the person that I needed most when I was young.
I threw myself into my studies at community college, then moved to Baltimore to attend Johns Hopkins. I met my husband as an undergrad, he was a teaching aid in my biology class. We stayed together through my college years, and then got married while I was in med school. My depression had not faded, but now I had learned new ways to cope and deal with my sickness. Everything was on track until I had to go through residency.
Residency is where a med school graduate works at a hospital to gain skills in an actual work environment before they can start working for real. While I was in residency, a woman had an invasive surgery that she didn’t need. The radiologist who ordered the surgery said that I had told him to do this, which was absolutely crazy because I was just an intern. My job was to learn and help out with small tasks, not to make important medical decisions for patients. Nonetheless, the entire department believed him and not me. I got in so much trouble there was a big meeting where all of my superiors talked about what to do about me.
Unsurprisingly, nobody at the meeting was on my side. They all voted to kick me out of the department. A meeting with the chief of the department of medicine was scheduled. This all would have been very stressful for a healthy person to deal with, but my anxiety made this a very very difficult time.
Finally the day of the meeting came. I got there early and was trying to hold myself
together in the parking lot. Against all odds I had gotten this far, and it was all about to be taken away. On my way there I had called my husband, just to get some reassurance, and as I was waiting he pulled into the parking lot. He had driven two hours from work to meet me. He told me that I was a good person and that no matter what everything would be OK. His compassion was the only thing that gave me the strength to go into that meeting.
I walked into the office and heard the chief say that he did not think that I should be allowed to stay in the program. However, the chief continued to say that the psychiatry department had stepped in and that I would just be moved to another part of the hospital.
The only reason I could enter the office was because of that moment of compassion and encouragement in the parking lot. Hearing the news was not half as hard as stepping foot inside the building. Reassurance from someone I loved helped me do that. Compassion can come from anywhere, but it means the most if it is from someone you love.
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