Bearing Witness to Others' Pain (2024)

Tragedy in one’s life cannot be predicted. We go through life, taking measures to hopefully avoid tragedy. When we learn of a tragic event in someone else’s life, we try to make sense out of it in a way that makes us feel we are less at risk of having similar misfortune. But tragedy can befall us, nonetheless.

And during our suffering, there is often much hubbub around us by those who care for us. These offerings of grief and help and assistance can be a distraction during a time when every fiber of our just wants to ache because we need to feel the pain. We need to feel through the pain.

As if it were yesterday, I remember a night during my residency. I was the neurology resident on call, and as such, I was responsible for any neurological emergency that took place in the hospital. At around midnight, I was paged to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU).

The PICU attending explained a 3-year-old child had fallen headfirst into a large bucket filled with cleaning fluid while his mother was cleaning the floors. His lungs filled with this detergent, he could not breathe, and his brain was unable to receive oxygen. He was quickly transported to the hospital and then flown via helicopter to the hospital where I worked and was now on call. I was asked to come down to the PICU to assess his brain function and consult with the family regarding his prognosis.

I had been in this scenario before but never in the middle of the night, where it was much quieter with fewer distractions and fewer other pressing issues to attend to as a resident.

I arrived at the hospital and walked through the doors. A hospital at night has surreal energy in the air. It is filled with night shift staff and physicians on call. There are no visitors and little movement as it is a time where only urgent issues are addressed. The day-to-day activity of the hospital is put to rest for the evening.

I went to the child’s bedside and examined him. It was clear he had little brain function, and his imaging study showed the markings of lack of oxygen. It was clear the prognosis was not favorable.

I looked over at the parents sitting on the bench by his bed. Their eyes, bloodshot and teary, were staring right at me. Their eyes were pleading. They wanted to be told the opposite of what their hearts already knew.

I started by explaining what I found on the exam. I then pulled up the MRI images on the screen and described what we were looking at and what it may mean. I quickly realized that they were not listening. They were not in an emotional space to hear, process, or confront.

The father left the room. The mother sat, with her body hunched over, crying uncontrollably – her devastation on full display. Not knowing what else to do as a young doctor and trying to control my own emotions as we are trained to do, I just sat down next to her. And I reflexively put my arm around her. She put her face in my upper arm and cried on my shoulder. The father walked into the room and sat on my other side, just staring into space.

We sat there for hours together – I still am not sure how long it was. I did not say a word.

At first, I felt I was acting inappropriately for a doctor. But I could not think of what to say nor what to do. I did not say anything. I did not do anything.

I realized I was doing what they needed now – at this moment. I was bearing witness to their indescribable pain.

Bearing witness to the pain of others helps them to acknowledge the reality of the pain and allows us the space to submerge into the pain. It is the only way to survive the inevitable suffering of life events.

At some point, following a tragic onset of emotional devastation and pain, we are forced to contend with the events that have unfolded and changed our lives for good. The aftermath of pain and loss depends very much on how we weather and sit in the emotions of the event.

The quiet but strong presence of others, even strangers, provides landmarks for those events and the marking of time. It also allows us to recognize that we are never truly alone in this world, and we can wake up one day and know we can put one foot in front of the other and find our way back. We can put our pieces back together to become functional even if we do not feel whole again.

We are neighbors and part of a larger community. We all experience joy, fear, and sadness. We all have wants, needs, and hopes for the future. But life can bring tragedy and pain, and it is important we stand and hold space for one another.

Reaching out and being present for others also helps strengthen our own sense of purpose and outlook on our lives. We benefit when we allow accessibility. We benefit when we don’t look away. Especially in this world we live in, we yearn to know we will hold one another up—both literally and metaphorically.

We find it easy to witness happy events such as weddings and births. But we also must find within us the ability to bear witness to the pain and sadness of others. Many fear they don’t know what to say or are afraid they will say something insensitive or inappropriate. But you don’t have to say anything. Your presence can speak volumes. It may feel uncomfortable or awkward, but that is okay. Discomfort and awkwardness are fleeting when we are doing the right thing.

When the sun arose, the parents thanked me for sitting with them. The mother has since sent me cards over the years. And I learned a great deal about my role as a physician and human.

You will never regret being present for others in their times of pain.