The Family Room

It's in every emergency department.

Empty, it's just another shell of a sparsely decorated hospital room, lacking vibe and energy.

But when you fill it with nervous, hopeful family members awaiting news of their critically-ill family member, it is transformed into a room that can barely contain every possible extreme of human emotion.

It is The Family Room.

So, you ask, why is this room known as The Family Room?

This is the room where the families of the most extremely sick patients are placed while the medical team uses every available effort in their medical arsenal to save a life. It's a place for family to be alone, to comfort themselves in the face of adversity. These may be families of trauma victims, heart attack victims, stroke victims, or any other critical illness. Because the family room is usually situated on the edge of the department, it is usually quieter, more calming, and private. A far cry from the commotion that usually accompanies the room in which resuscitating a patient is happening.

Don't be fooled, though. This is no ordinary room. Physically, it may look like any other decorated hospital room, with a few extra vases and boxes of tissues thrown in, but that's where the similarities end. It is a room that demands and deserves respect. It is a room that I imagine as my friend, absorbing and buffeting and protecting all within it from the swirls of anger and the clouds of desperation. Sometimes, just sometimes, the mood is joyful. More often than not, however, this is a room where dreadful news is delivered to a family not prepared for such news.

Our own family room is just as I described above. It sits in the corner of our department, nestled between our waiting room on one side and the entrance hallway to our department on the other. It's painted beige and coral with a flowery border at the top--comfort colors, I guess. Short shag navy rug. Two of the corners hold lamps, usually lit for better ambiance. The furniture consists of two love seats and two wing-backed chairs, a couple in dark blue floral patterns, the other in pink and coral. Slightly better quality fabric and stuffing than the standard hospital furniture, but not by much.

How do I know these details? It's amazing the small things that I notice when I'm trying to blink back my own tears in sharing a family's misery. Sometimes I'm transported back to tenth grade when I counted Christmas tree ornaments on our church tree during my grandfather's funeral, all in the hopes of distracting my impending tears. 157 ornaments on the tree closest to the Virgin Mary.

I rarely deliver news alone to a family waiting. Either the ER social worker or the supervising nurse accompany me, sometimes both. I wear my long, official white coat to respect the gravity of the situation.

Imagine that moment right before walking into the family room with bad news. I hesitate at the door, take a deep breath, and remember that my words and support will be paramount to the family. I open the door, usually to be greeted by several anxious family members either pacing or sitting well beyond the edge of their chairs. After introductions of myself and my team, I ask them how they are each related to the patient.

Then, the hard part follows. I sit close to the spouse or family. Sometimes, I am offered a hand to hold and I eagerly take it. If the patient has already died, I make it a point to not linger and share the news almost immediately. It is important to be blunt but heartfelt, using the words "dead," "expired," and "we did everything we could." It has been shown that a family needs to hear several variations of the word "dead" so that the news sinks through their despair. Reassurances are given that everything possible was done.

If the patient is still alive, I review with the family everything being done to save their loved one. I explain any prehospital treatment, what we are currently doing for the patient in the ER, and give the family a brief opportunity to ask questions. We sometimes need to review the patient's living will or DNR status and to what level efforts should be pursued. Family members may even be invited to witness the resuscitation.

Through all of this, I don't lose eye contact. I focus on each person in the room, letting my eyes say something different from my words. "I'm so sorry" is the most simple and heartfelt offering.

As an ER doctor, I have a protective shell around me that I can usually maintain. But in the family room, I am different. It is not rare for me to leave with tears in my eyes, and that does not shame me. It is my privilege and blessing, really, to accompany a family through some of their darkest moments. I appreciate their acceptance of my presence during their misery. Who am I to bear witness to their profound loss?

I have been told by several staff members that my greatest gift is how I interact in that family room. But, for whatever I bring to that room, it is but a feather compared to the weight I carry away from it each and every time I meet another family.

I am humbled by this part of my job. And respectful of the family room's role in our ER.


Thank you, as always, for reading. I am grateful...may your week go well. Next post will be Wednesday, December 23.