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Several months ago, I sat with a woman just a few days after the emergent Cesarean section delivery of her first child. She cried as she told me about her entire life—childhood trauma, a pattern of difficult relationships, several miscarriages, and now, finally, a baby—delivered under circumstances so scary, all she remembered was overwhelming fear. Now, she had returned to the hospital with severe postpartum depression, layered with struggles that are common during the first days with a newborn—little sleep, loss of autonomy, guilt, and loneliness. It was hard to listen to it all, but I encouraged her to express her pain, believing that burdens are lighter when shared.
Words often fail us in times of desperation. Much of my education has involved borrowing words, phrases, or ideas from my experienced attendings and mentors, applying them like a salve when I don’t know what else to say. Sitting with another person in silence is often powerful enough, but when something needs to be said, I fall back on these inherited ideas. One of the mantras I often use, and what I said to my patient that day, is about hope: “When you’re down in this depression, you feel hopeless, and you can’t see the hope. It doesn’t mean there isn’t hope; just that you can’t see it.” I’ve watched that idea take root in patients who—despite their own beliefs in the moment—do get better, thus proving the point. Another favorite phrase: “With any luck at all, tomorrow will be better than today.” When you talk to someone on the worst day of their life, what else is there to say?
Today, my conversation with that woman seems like an eternity ago. Public discourse has been overtaken by coronavirus disease 2019 (COVID-19)—the journalism, reflections on the journalism, medical advice, debate about the medical advice, and the innumerable ways in which this worldwide strife has created pain: celebrations and long-awaited plans cancelled, weddings and funerals put on hold, isolation, loneliness, death, and, of course, the fear of death. Those feelings and any other permutations are valid; another phrase, “It’s OK to feel what you are feeling,” carries weight for me these days. I work in a hospital, so I add to the list the breathless fears about what’s going to happen in our local environment. The chronic uncertainty was wearing us thin even before we had begun to do here in Ohio what was already being done elsewhere: working extra shifts, intubating new patients, praying we don’t get sick ourselves.
Our work during COVID-19
Amidst this, my colleagues and I continue our work as psychiatrists, sitting with humans experiencing complex grief (a man whose wife died alone in a nursing home, because of visitor restrictions), confusion (delirium resulting from respiratory failure), and even psychosis (inability to access stabilizing medications coupled with crippling paranoia). These remain just as real and debilitating in a pandemic as they do in other times. In addition to pre-existing mental illnesses, for some individuals, the shared anxiety will progress to clinically significant disorders that may last even longer than the effects of the virus. The resulting complex symptoms could affect everything from home lives to interpersonal relationships to our local and global economies. These are not minor issues. Although often triaged aside in a disaster, our collective mental health remains in some ways more central than ever.
Modern psychiatry would not often use the word “love,” but that’s what I am trying to do—show love to the people who need it the most right now (which is all of us, really). This love takes strange shapes, and sometimes new forms, but it’s just about all I have to give. Like everyone else, I don’t have concrete answers for the grief and fear and panic. But I’m content to share the burden of pain, believing that burdens are lighter when shared. And I have a few words that, however little comfort they offer in the moment, are eventually proven true: Just because you can’t see the hope doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It’s OK to feel what you are feeling. With any luck at all, tomorrow will be better than today.
Several months ago, I sat with a woman just a few days after the emergent Cesarean section delivery of her first child. She cried as she told me about her entire life—childhood trauma, a pattern of difficult relationships, several miscarriages, and now, finally, a baby—delivered under circumstances so scary, all she remembered was overwhelming fear. Now, she had returned to the hospital with severe postpartum depression, layered with struggles that are common during the first days with a newborn—little sleep, loss of autonomy, guilt, and loneliness. It was hard to listen to it all, but I encouraged her to express her pain, believing that burdens are lighter when shared.
Words often fail us in times of desperation. Much of my education has involved borrowing words, phrases, or ideas from my experienced attendings and mentors, applying them like a salve when I don’t know what else to say. Sitting with another person in silence is often powerful enough, but when something needs to be said, I fall back on these inherited ideas. One of the mantras I often use, and what I said to my patient that day, is about hope: “When you’re down in this depression, you feel hopeless, and you can’t see the hope. It doesn’t mean there isn’t hope; just that you can’t see it.” I’ve watched that idea take root in patients who—despite their own beliefs in the moment—do get better, thus proving the point. Another favorite phrase: “With any luck at all, tomorrow will be better than today.” When you talk to someone on the worst day of their life, what else is there to say?
Today, my conversation with that woman seems like an eternity ago. Public discourse has been overtaken by coronavirus disease 2019 (COVID-19)—the journalism, reflections on the journalism, medical advice, debate about the medical advice, and the innumerable ways in which this worldwide strife has created pain: celebrations and long-awaited plans cancelled, weddings and funerals put on hold, isolation, loneliness, death, and, of course, the fear of death. Those feelings and any other permutations are valid; another phrase, “It’s OK to feel what you are feeling,” carries weight for me these days. I work in a hospital, so I add to the list the breathless fears about what’s going to happen in our local environment. The chronic uncertainty was wearing us thin even before we had begun to do here in Ohio what was already being done elsewhere: working extra shifts, intubating new patients, praying we don’t get sick ourselves.
Our work during COVID-19
Amidst this, my colleagues and I continue our work as psychiatrists, sitting with humans experiencing complex grief (a man whose wife died alone in a nursing home, because of visitor restrictions), confusion (delirium resulting from respiratory failure), and even psychosis (inability to access stabilizing medications coupled with crippling paranoia). These remain just as real and debilitating in a pandemic as they do in other times. In addition to pre-existing mental illnesses, for some individuals, the shared anxiety will progress to clinically significant disorders that may last even longer than the effects of the virus. The resulting complex symptoms could affect everything from home lives to interpersonal relationships to our local and global economies. These are not minor issues. Although often triaged aside in a disaster, our collective mental health remains in some ways more central than ever.
Modern psychiatry would not often use the word “love,” but that’s what I am trying to do—show love to the people who need it the most right now (which is all of us, really). This love takes strange shapes, and sometimes new forms, but it’s just about all I have to give. Like everyone else, I don’t have concrete answers for the grief and fear and panic. But I’m content to share the burden of pain, believing that burdens are lighter when shared. And I have a few words that, however little comfort they offer in the moment, are eventually proven true: Just because you can’t see the hope doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It’s OK to feel what you are feeling. With any luck at all, tomorrow will be better than today.
Several months ago, I sat with a woman just a few days after the emergent Cesarean section delivery of her first child. She cried as she told me about her entire life—childhood trauma, a pattern of difficult relationships, several miscarriages, and now, finally, a baby—delivered under circumstances so scary, all she remembered was overwhelming fear. Now, she had returned to the hospital with severe postpartum depression, layered with struggles that are common during the first days with a newborn—little sleep, loss of autonomy, guilt, and loneliness. It was hard to listen to it all, but I encouraged her to express her pain, believing that burdens are lighter when shared.
Words often fail us in times of desperation. Much of my education has involved borrowing words, phrases, or ideas from my experienced attendings and mentors, applying them like a salve when I don’t know what else to say. Sitting with another person in silence is often powerful enough, but when something needs to be said, I fall back on these inherited ideas. One of the mantras I often use, and what I said to my patient that day, is about hope: “When you’re down in this depression, you feel hopeless, and you can’t see the hope. It doesn’t mean there isn’t hope; just that you can’t see it.” I’ve watched that idea take root in patients who—despite their own beliefs in the moment—do get better, thus proving the point. Another favorite phrase: “With any luck at all, tomorrow will be better than today.” When you talk to someone on the worst day of their life, what else is there to say?
Today, my conversation with that woman seems like an eternity ago. Public discourse has been overtaken by coronavirus disease 2019 (COVID-19)—the journalism, reflections on the journalism, medical advice, debate about the medical advice, and the innumerable ways in which this worldwide strife has created pain: celebrations and long-awaited plans cancelled, weddings and funerals put on hold, isolation, loneliness, death, and, of course, the fear of death. Those feelings and any other permutations are valid; another phrase, “It’s OK to feel what you are feeling,” carries weight for me these days. I work in a hospital, so I add to the list the breathless fears about what’s going to happen in our local environment. The chronic uncertainty was wearing us thin even before we had begun to do here in Ohio what was already being done elsewhere: working extra shifts, intubating new patients, praying we don’t get sick ourselves.
Our work during COVID-19
Amidst this, my colleagues and I continue our work as psychiatrists, sitting with humans experiencing complex grief (a man whose wife died alone in a nursing home, because of visitor restrictions), confusion (delirium resulting from respiratory failure), and even psychosis (inability to access stabilizing medications coupled with crippling paranoia). These remain just as real and debilitating in a pandemic as they do in other times. In addition to pre-existing mental illnesses, for some individuals, the shared anxiety will progress to clinically significant disorders that may last even longer than the effects of the virus. The resulting complex symptoms could affect everything from home lives to interpersonal relationships to our local and global economies. These are not minor issues. Although often triaged aside in a disaster, our collective mental health remains in some ways more central than ever.
Modern psychiatry would not often use the word “love,” but that’s what I am trying to do—show love to the people who need it the most right now (which is all of us, really). This love takes strange shapes, and sometimes new forms, but it’s just about all I have to give. Like everyone else, I don’t have concrete answers for the grief and fear and panic. But I’m content to share the burden of pain, believing that burdens are lighter when shared. And I have a few words that, however little comfort they offer in the moment, are eventually proven true: Just because you can’t see the hope doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It’s OK to feel what you are feeling. With any luck at all, tomorrow will be better than today.
