by Matt Zytkoskee<\/p>\n
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I\u2019m slicing pizza into ridiculously narrow slices for my four-year-old daughter, Arya, and five-year-old-son, Finn, when they call me: \u201cWe\u2019re playing \u2018doctor\u2019 Daddy!\u201d they shout, and by \u201cplaying doctor,\u201d they do not mean it in the way I thought of it when I was a kid. No, to them it\u2019s serious business and, apparently, I\u2019m being recruited to play the part of the patient. Soon, I find myself splayed out on the gurney\u2014AKA the futon\u2014surrounded by an assortment of plastic tools from a kid\u2019s medical kit, surprisingly impressive in scope and sophistication . . . though the presence of a bone saw strikes me as a bit intense!<\/p>\n
\u201cHurry Finn!\u201d Arya shouts, \u201cGet the shot. This is an emergency.\u201d Interestingly, she\u2019s actually found a legitimate issue and is pointing Finn toward a patch of eczema on the soft side of my upper arm.<\/p>\n
Within seconds, he\u2019s jamming a plastic syringe, with surprising force, into the center of the eczema. \u201cOw!\u201d I squeak, no longer faking it, and realize that it actually feels like I\u2019m at the doctor\u2019s office. This thought makes me laugh, and Arya immediately hisses, \u201cShush. Don\u2019t laugh. It\u2019s not funny.\u201d Next, she raises the bone saw, and I think \u201cOh shit! She\u2019s gonna amputate,\u201d and for some reason, this thought makes me laugh harder. Arya, extremely displeased now, says in the most serious tone she can muster, \u201cOkay Finn, you\u2019re going to have to sit on Daddy so he stops laughing\u201d\u2014the children\u2019s version of a straight-jacket.<\/p>\n
The fact that I am laughing at all in the midst of their doctor play is radically different from when I\u2019d first found them playing doctor, after their mom died of brain cancer, a year ago. At that time, they\u2019d hung a pretend IV line from the top of a chair and were taking turns connecting it to each other\u2019s arms. To say that I had been horrified would be an understatement. Quickly turning, I\u2019d fled to the garage before they could see me sobbing. Normally, I don\u2019t hide crying, as modeling grief is important, but there was something different about this. As I sat in the garage, I thought about how often they had watched the chemo poison slowly drip into mommy\u2019s body and how they had witnessed at least two of her seizures. I thought about how much time they\u2019d spent in the oncology ward because their mommy was desperate to hold them\u2014in fact, they were there so often that Arya would say, \u201cMommy\u2019s house\u201d any time we arrived at the hospital.\u00a0 I thought about how both kids had come along to the ER several times, something we had tried to prevent but became necessary in moments of crisis\u2014gushing nose bleeds and extreme disorientation make it impossible to find a babysitter. So, when I\u2019d found them reenacting aspects of this nightmare, it was more than my heart could take.<\/p>\n
But as time passed, they continued to play doctor, and Arya even set up a little clinic to treat hurt stuffed animals. As a result, I got used to their medical scenarios, even those involving mock trauma. But it\u2019s not until tonight, it\u2019s not until I find myself laughing, it\u2019s not until I catch myself looking upon their play with a sense of pride, that I realize something has markedly changed. But what?<\/p>\n
Four months earlier, I\u2019d sat at a conference table with seven of my medical students as they read their illness narratives aloud, narratives either about one\u2019s own experience or that of a loved one. To my surprise, of the seventy students who cycled through the conference room in small groups, none had blown off the work, though their writing varied in style and intensity. For many, it was no simple task. Vulnerability can be incredibly challenging, and the fact that they were willing to share their trauma and suffering spoke to its importance in their lives and their desire to become healers. They were damned protective of each other, too. Classmates who broke down into tears were immediately validated, given tissues, and even hugged. Most surprising, perhaps, was the severity of the trauma many of them had experienced and the influence that medical intervention had on them. For some, the intervention had been horrific and their mission was to practice medicine differently. For most, however, a physician had saved their life or the life of a family member. In essence, a shocking number of the students had been severely wounded, physically and psychologically. However, these wounds became their motivation, their source of strength and empathy.<\/p>\n
My eczema has now been officially treated, and as I rise from the hospital bed in hopes of procuring a cold beverage, Finn firmly pushes me back down and shouts, \u201cOh no, Arya! Daddy\u2019s heart needs help!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh my,\u201d I think, \u201cthey have no idea how true this is.\u201d A second later, Arya attempts to deliver chest compressions\u2014something I\u2019d shown her, one Sunday afternoon, after she\u2019d asked what a heart-attack was (the event that ultimately ended her mom\u2019s life). I\u2019m impressed with her technique, but when she leans forward to deliver the rescue breaths, I tell her, \u201cSave that part for your teddy bears, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pauses thoughtfully before launching back into frenzied action, \u201cOkay Finn, grab the mouth tool! Look at Daddy\u2019s teeth.\u201d Playing the dutiful assistant, Finn jams one of those angled dental mirrors in my mouth, while Arya continues chest compressions. After a moment, Finn cheerfully announces, \u201cNo cavities.\u201d The absurdity of getting a friendly dental check-up while simultaneously receiving CPR is too much for me, and I break into howls of laughter.<\/p>\n
\u201cDaaaddddyyy,\u201d Arya whines, \u201cyou\u2019re not playing right.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou want your patients to smile and laugh,\u201d I tell her. \u201cBelieve me, it means they\u2019re feeling better\u2014or at least that they trust you.\u201d<\/p>\n
She purses her lips thoughtfully and, with a curt nod, says, \u201cOkay. You can laugh now.\u201d<\/p>\n
In this moment, I realize what it is that\u2019s changed, why the kids\u2019 version of playing doctor no longer drives me to cry alone in the garage. While the game will always have an edge of grief, I now see blooming potential. My students reminded me that trauma can be a source of strength, of motivation to help others. And who knows, perhaps someday my children will help save someone else\u2019s mommy. So, keep playing doctor, my little wounded healers.<\/p>\n
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