Chris Peterson53 said:Look, I wouldn't call it unprofessional; I’d call it being human. Unless you can actually prove they’re doing it on purpose—like, intentionally undermining a colleague’s authority just to boost their own ego for some personal gain—then you shouldn't be throwing accusations around. Sure, it’s bad for the patient. It shakes their confidence and makes them feel unsafe, regardless of how the treatment actually turns out. But if you haven't personally sat in on a single medical board meeting, you have absolutely no clue what goes on behind those closed doors. Honestly, it’s better that way—and especially better for the patients.
I have a pretty clear vision of how this ought to work, and honestly, it should be treated like actual teamwork. Medicine needs to function as a cohesive unit rather than a fragmented mess. Take my mother, for example—she’s been battling glioblastoma for two years now, and she hasn't had a single neurologist managing her case from start to finish because none of these doctors actually communicate. Instead, they spend their time tripping each other up, undermining one another's reputations, and sabotaging any semblance of professionalism. I'm not just talking out of turn here; this was a raw, heartfelt vent from our oncologist that really laid everything bare. I still maintain that the doctor had an outburst that, while perhaps "human" in the sense that it revealed a deeply unflattering character trait, was completely unacceptable. You can have all the expertise and clinical experience in the world, but if you behave that way toward your colleagues—even if they are the absolute worst in terms of both bedside manner and technical skill—you've failed. There is such a thing as professional conduct when dealing with coworkers and patients, and frankly, it should be a core pillar of medical training.
I was part of that machine for a long time, and I’m calling it exactly what it is.
Look, it’s pretty simple: anyone working in healthcare—regardless of their specific role—who deals with the critically ill or those facing death is going to build up a psychological fortress. It happens almost subconsciously from day one on the job. You start interacting with that level of suffering, and before you even realize it, you've constructed this massive defensive wall just to stay sane.
Can you even begin to wrap your head around the weight they’re all dragging behind them? It's like they're wading through an endless ocean of misery—dealing with death, constant suffering, and people looking to them for miracles that they simply cannot perform.
Why bother pursuing a medical degree if you haven't already come to terms with the reality that you aren't some kind of miracle worker? You have to accept that medicine provides tools, not magic wands. It’s an incredibly brutal path, I get that—believe me, I do—but that exact lack of realism is why we see such a massive divide between doctors who are truly exceptional and those whose practice is just plain mediocre.
To survive emotionally and professionally, healthcare workers start distancing themselves from their patients, focusing strictly on the pathology rather than the person. It’s a survival mechanism, plain and simple. When you combine that psychological wall with the absolute mess that is the current state of the American healthcare system, you get the grim reality of what we're facing today. Sure, there are still good people out there, but a significant number have completely lost their humanity. They’ve either become totally desensitized just to cope, they picked the wrong profession entirely, or—let's be honest—they view this calling as nothing more than a stepping stone for their own careers.
That’s exactly why those who go all in—not just professionally, but emotionally—are the ones who truly feel the impact. It's the people who actually connect with their patients who end up bearing the weight of it all. personal They need to take personal responsibility for every single patient who walks through their doors asking for help. They shouldn't be dumping that burden onto the rest of the collective.
That’s exactly the point. Medicine shouldn't be a solo act; it needs to be a team sport. You simply cannot carry the entire weight of responsibility on your own shoulders. There are times when that burden becomes so crushing that a doctor hits a wall—they mentally freeze up, and suddenly they can't even apply the very knowledge they possess to help their patient. It’s like trying to hold up a falling building by yourself; eventually, you just buckle. Practicing medicine is incredibly grueling work. I have nothing but profound respect for the people who walk into this profession with their eyes wide open to all its complexities and pressures, rise to become top-tier experts, and still manage to keep their integrity intact.
This entire thread is essentially a mirror reflecting how human relationships have shifted over the last few decades.
In the past, people passed away surrounded by family, often with several generations living under one roof. Their presence provided solace to the dying, while their mutual support gave strength to those left behind. People died in their own beds, in their own homes, because if they were in a hospital, the family would almost always bring them back home to die among their own kin, under their own roof.
There was always someone there—even just a neighbor. No one was abandoned, day or night.
There was a sense of density and interconnectedness within families and the surrounding community—neighbors, acquaintances—everyone was solidary and ready to step up in such a moment. Because being present is often more vital than any medical tool meant to dull the pain. Children were part of that fabric, too.
With the rise of alienation and the fracturing of the family unit into isolated individuals, all of that has vanished. We’ve seen the dehumanization of death and the dying process, starting as early as childhood. We’ve developed these official and unofficial theories and practices suggesting children shouldn't be burdened with facing illness or death. Of course, you wouldn't put young children in those situations, neither then nor now, but today this logic is applied even to those who are given the right to everything else *except* the chance to understand and develop a proper relationship with mortality (and all its realities, including suffering).
Today, both the dying and their loved ones are left alone. The elderly and the terminal are sent off to "institutions to write off" (like N. Marof).
And as I've said before, there is no professional support available—neither for those departing nor for those staying behind. That kind of help is desperately needed, and in a way, this thread and this exchange of thoughts and experiences is what those large families used to be.
I completely agree with you. Through my own trauma, I’ve come to realize who I really am, and I see people coming here opening their souls, totally unprepared for death as a natural conclusion to life, even though most of us are well over 30. We are all mature enough to accept it. Death is inevitable, and while it is painful—mostly for selfish reasons—it is natural, and through the death of others, we must learn to accept our own mortality. Children are being raised wrong; I was raised wrong in that regard. I will try to raise my child with the spirit that everything is fleeting, to live each day as if it were the last, focusing primarily on today and only thinking, very briefly and vaguely, about tomorrow.
Regarding dying within the family, I am absolutely with you. Unfortunately, modern society is structured in a way that is anything but humane. Business is placed above everything else. A woman on this forum messaged me privately, crying because her mother is at death's door, but she can't be with her because of a monster of a boss who refuses to tolerate it (a man who acts immortal and cannot stomach the concept of death🤣 😠), and she can't risk losing her job because she has small children and needs the income. Personally, amidst my own tragedy, I feel blessed because I am unemployed, allowing me to provide my mother with the ability to be by her side until her very last heartbeat, in her own room under her favorite picture, by a window with her favorite view—clean, washed, cared for, fed, and without pain, with days filled with kisses. Isn't that a happy death? Because we are both at peace.
Thank you for reaching out and sharing your perspective.🙂
