Abstract
“
That is one of the questions that someone will later call and ask the pretty young wife who is reeling from losing her husband to brain cancer.
Understanding the virtues of quality control and disease prevention, my medically trained mind understands the rationale of asking; however, my soul cannot think of a more ridiculous question.
I would want to scream at the person on the other end of the phone, to rage about the audacity of asking about hand washing when the one I love would die no matter what the nurse does, no matter what anyone could do. I would want to scream about the unfairness of it all, that he is being ripped from my arms before we have even had time to begin the dreams we dreamed together; that he never did and never will get to know his infant son; that already the cancer has taken his mind and I have not had my lover, my husband, my best friend for more than a year.
Escaping from this ugly reality for a moment, I dutifully wash my hands. This isn't completely necessary as I am strictly observing, but it prevents me from being left alone with the patient, his loved ones, and my glaring inadequacies while the nurse also washes her hands. I continue washing for a small eternity as if I could wash away the sick feeling that there is nothing I can say or do, nothing anyone can say or do to fix this.
Staring at the water running over my hands I am reminded of someone else who washed his hands to try to absolve his guilt over another's death. The action is as futile for me as it was 2000 years ago for Pontius Pilate; the effort actually exposes and polishes the guilt.
Finally, I take a deep breath, dry my hands, and take my scrubbed, raw emotions back in with me to examine the patient.