The ripple effect of teaching

“If we do not intubate him now, he will die.” This is the last thing I remember about my father's death. I could feel cold rippling down my back and a lump forming in my throat as I thought about the past year. My dad was sitting up and talking to us—I couldn't imagine he needed intubation. How did I not catch this? Should I have pushed the medical team harder for answers? I never thought I would sit on the other side of the patient's bed, my heart pounding as I watched the machines beep and hum around my father. I had spent years taking care of critically ill patients, providing comfort in their most vulnerable moments. Now, it was my dad who lay there, helpless and struggling. There is an intense vulnerability on the other side, an overwhelming rush of emotions, a desire to hold on, to fix. No amount of training could prepare me for the grief I was feeling. But as the hours passed and the prognosis grew dimmer, reality became clear: there was nothing I could do to change the outcome. I thought about the thousands of patients I've cared for. I saw the faces of my PA students. I thought back on discussions and reflections about how we navigate intense emotions, ways to console family members, and the things we do to humanize the practice of medicine. As I stood watching my dad, hoping his team would be good enough, a face I knew walked through the door—one of my former students. Here she was, the PA on my dad's ICU care team. She walked in slowly, her face softening as I watched her connect the dots. She was the first to speak to my family. Her tone was calm, and she told us very directly what the medical plan would be. My father was lightly sedated; she gently approached him and held his hand. She sat with my family while we cried and explained the next steps in his care with clarity and compassion. Tears welled in my eyes and my chest constricted as I listened. I was overcome with emotion, experiencing the student I once guided now providing care to my family. I felt the power of teaching and mentorship come full circle. After my father was extubated, he whispered in a raspy voice to my student, “You're doing a great job.” Four days later, I entered his room and found her again, sitting with my sister, hugging her. My father took his last breath just moments later. I devote myself to teaching students about the emotional intelligence necessary to provide compassionate care. The trust, knowledge, and skills this student and I had cultivated in our academic relationship found a deep home in this personal setting. I witnessed the ripple effect of that power, and was humbled. We teach for these moments beyond the walls of the classroom. Lessons taught in lectures are not the sole markers of a successful medical career. Rather, deeper lessons I had imparted were now evident in the way she treated my family, and I realized the true impact of our relationship. Witnessing her provide care to my dad reminded me of the profound impact we, as educators and preceptors, have in shaping the future of healthcare. My lasting memory will be standing next to my deceased father and trembling with sorrow as grief consumed me. At this most vulnerable moment, my student embraced me, giving meaning to this heartbreak. On the days when it feels hard to teach or to take the extra time to help a student, consider the ways you are shaping providers that may one day care for those you love. When we feel cynical, overburdened, and exhausted, when we think about quitting medicine, consider our work as it extends into the providers we are forming. We often don't get the chance to see the effects of our teaching at the bedside. I'm grateful for this exception.