What Loss Teaches Us About Living
Presence isn’t something you achieve. It’s what’s left when everything else falls away, writes Dr. Lucy McBride.
My brother Harry was airlifted to the trauma center after a car accident. As I drove to the hospital, I noticed ordinary people doing ordinary things, which made me realize that this was not a dream. When I arrived, the doctor said, "It's still very early," and "We're doing everything we can," but I knew deep down that this was it. I am a primary care physician, and I understand the inevitability of death, but nothing could have prepared me for this loss.
For three days, Harry was on life support, and my family took turns at his bedside. The ICU nurse, Lexi, taught me that presence is not something you achieve, but rather what's left when everything else falls away. Harry died on July 16, surrounded by his family. The paperwork seemed extensive, but the hardest part was watching my parents carry Harry's things out of the hospital.
In the days and months that followed, I didn't care about small things like a parking ticket or an overflowing inbox. The fear of losing Harry wasn't permanent, but the grief was. As a doctor, I've taught my patients that impermanence is cruel and merciful at the same time. The truth is that nothing truly holds, but paying attention to the ordinary moments and the people in front of us can help us find a sense of peace.
Written by urgent.news from Time's reporting — not their text. Machine-written — may contain errors; check the original before relying on it.
