Max S.
Photo provided by Max S.
If you’re reading this, grief is love expressed in a different way, and it’s something you carry with you always.
It’s hard to even know where to start with this. I thought maybe – having gone through loss before – I’d be better equipped to deal with it, but I wasn’t. A little over a year ago, my older sister suddenly passed away after a complication with her pregnancy.
That night I was on FaceTime with her around 8 PM. She was in labor, and we were joking, laughing, talking about me coming to visit once Blake made his way into the world. She hung up to get some rest before the next decision about possibly doing a c-section if she didn’t progress. That was the last time I ever heard her voice. Around 11 PM, my mom got a call from Garrett, my brother-in-law, that she had gone into cardiac arrest and needed an emergency c-section. My nephew was life-flighted to a nearby NICU. My sister was in the OR.
We’re still not 100% sure what happened, but what we do know is that she developed DIC, threw a massive saddle pulmonary embolism, and later we learned she’d also had a stroke that required a craniectomy. Being in medicine, one of my strongest coping mechanisms has always been intellectualizing. While she was in the ICU that week, I joined the team while they rounded on my sister, trying to understand her medical course so I could explain it to my mom and Garrett. It gave me some sense of control in a situation where I had none. I’d done this before with my dad’s journey – trying to make sense of labs, scans, treatment options, outcomes. People always said, “just take it a minute, an hour, a day at a time.” I tried to do that emotionally, but processing the medicine helped me feel like I had something to hold onto.
Nothing prepares you for holding your loved one’s hand as they take their last breath. After a week of interventions, Garrett, with the support of my mom and me, made the impossible decision to withdraw care. I can’t imagine what that was like for him, or what my mom felt in those moments. All I could do was try to be present while wrestling with my own grief. I leaned on them, and they leaned on me. I cried to my best friends over the phone. I stood on my feet only because of the incredible support network I had. My sister was an organ donor, and knowing she donated her liver – the same organ my dad had received years earlier in the same city – felt like a strange full-circle moment.
This all happened during my fourth year of medical school. I did take some time for myself, but I also knew my sister would want me to keep moving forward. I submitted my residency application a week after she passed. I eased back into rotations when I was ready. Still, certain moments hit me like a wave. Seeing newborns in clinic made me think of what could have been my sister and Garrett. Assisting in deliveries on my OB rotation broke me. Coding patients in the ED brought me back to her ICU room. Each time, I took a breath, stepped away, and cried. I couldn’t just bury those feelings – and that’s okay. Whether you’re grieving or not, medicine exposes you to hard things. It’s okay to feel them.
Some of my proudest moments have happened since my sister’s passing, but they’ve also been the hardest. Match Day. Graduation. These moments were bittersweet – my dad, mom, and sister were always my biggest supporters, and not having all of them by my side cut deep. Leading up to Match Day, I couldn’t bear the thought of being around classmates who were celebrating with their families. A month before, I broke down crying in a bathroom during dinner with medical school friends when the conversation turned to everyone’s Match Day plans. That’s the thing – sometimes the proudest moments don’t feel purely happy. They’re layered with grief. What got me through was being surrounded by my mom, my brother-in-law, my aunt and uncle, and friends who are family. Support doesn’t erase the pain, but it helps me carry it.
The hardest part, though, is knowing my sister’s and my relationship was just beginning to bloom. With Blake’s arrival, I was so excited for her to call me with all her questions. My dad, in his final days, made us promise to keep building our relationship. We did, but we didn’t get enough time.
I share this because grief really does just suck. I thought I’d know how to handle it after losing my dad, but I didn’t. What I’ve learned is that I need to cry, to reminisce, and to talk when I can. I’m still not great at the talking part. When my co-residents ask about family, I catch myself speaking about my dad and sister as if they’re still here. Maybe it’s denial. Maybe it’s not wanting to make others uncomfortable. Maybe it’s both. But I’m learning that I have to do what feels right in the moment. Writing this down is easier than saying it out loud.
It took me four years to share my dad’s story. It’s taken me a year to share my sister’s. That feels like progress. If you’re reading this, I hope you never feel alone in your grief. It isn’t linear. It isn’t something you get over, it’s something you grow around. If you’re reading this, grief is love expressed in a different way, and it’s something you carry with you always.
Max S.
KCU Class of 2025, Emory Pediatrics Resident
Several studies have revealed that medical students, physicians, and healthcare professionals experience mental health symptoms at rates significantly higher than the general population. Stethos[Cope] is a chapter of IfYoureReadingThis designed to help medical students and professionals cope with the unique stressors of medical training and change the narrative of mental health in medicine.
To read more letters and interviews from students, and to learn more about mental health in the medical community, visit the Stethos[Cope] home page.
