Two lessons we can all learn from Dr Richard Harris

In a time of bewildered young children crying for their parents at border crossings, the world found an antidote in the meticulous rescue of another group of youngsters trapped in a dangerous cave from which emerging alive was considered improbable. Australians had their own special stake in the matter as we watched a hereto unknown anaesthetist from Adelaide, Dr Richard Harris, apply his rare and unique deep cave-diving skills to the task. Such was his acclaim in familiar circles that British experts specifically requested his expertise to help navigate the cave system said to be among the most dangerous in the world.

Reports mentioned he elected to stay in the cave with the trapped boys for three days, personally ensuring that every child was safe to evacuate. He was the last person out. It must have been the most onerous of responsibilities tethered to the hopes of parents, a nation, and indeed the whole world. As this monumental feat of human achievement unfolded, we were glued to our screens. Four children came out, then another four. And suddenly, apart from the tragic loss of a Thai navy diver, Saman Kunan, every single person was safe.

The aftermath of the heroic effort was filled with interviews and inevitably, the chatter about the blockbuster movie that must surely follow such an incredible story. Anyone who had anything to do with the rescue had a story to tell. But perhaps because I am a doctor myself, it was the conduct of Richard Harris that captivated my attention and had me thinking about what doctors could learn from it.

His valour and calm during a crisis were inarguably heroic but to use him as a measuring stick is to invite oneself to an ordinary life. Yet, medicine is going through its own crisis of trust and identity and doctors are looking to be inspired. Compared to others, Harris has been quiet but here are two thoughts he expressed that I admire.

It wasn’t me, it was us

Speaking of the rescue effort, Harris heralded the work of “the hundreds, perhaps thousands of people involved”, reassuring us that the part he played had been made out to be “a lot more noble than it actually was”. He added that he considered himself “lucky” to have possessed some useful skills, an understatement if there were one, but one that made me proud to think of him as a fellow doctor.

It is said that there is no I in team but there are, in fact, two Is in medicine. The culture of medicine tends to reward individual merit above collective effort. The competition and jostling for higher ground starts early and continues as a constant search for better grants, more patients and greater status that unintentionally swallows the idea of being a good human being. Of course, the two aren’t mutually exclusive but as one of my best residents reflected sadly after missing out on a job, “There was no bonus for being kind.”

Doctors and nurses are fortunate to receive abundant thanks for their contribution to patient care. Indeed, places like the chemotherapy ward are never short of flowers, chocolates and home-baked delicacies. But it’s rare to acknowledge the hundreds of people who keep the wheels of healthcare turning.

Before I arrive at work, multiple people have ensured the smooth running of my day, among them the porters, cleaners, clerical staff, cooks and volunteers we all take for granted. I will never forget the sight of a cleaner sobbing in a corner at the impending death of a patient. Until then, I had regarded it as my loss, but she taught me that we were all in it together. Yet, the plaudits most often go to the most visible people.

By deliberately shining the limelight on the people least likely to be acknowledged, Harris has shown himself to be a shining example of how it is possible for one’s personal attributes to co-exist with generosity towards others. There are few instant fixes in medicine but readily sharing individual acclaim may be an easy one.

I would like to get back to normal life

With camera crews swarming and people canvassing options on which star could portray one’s real-life heroism, it must be tempting at the very least to be a part of the clamour in the instant before the world’s attention shifts elsewhere. But after speaking his modest piece, the doctor simply stepped away.

Sadly, as Harris was rescuing others, his own father died, which must surely add to the burden of his emotions and is reason enough to fade from publicity. But I couldn’t help thinking that his desire to get back to normality also showed a profound wisdom and a welcome sense of perspective that is elusive for so many.

While most doctors don’t perform cave rescues, we are witness to a tremendous amount of human drama and pathos that threaten to engulf us. Amid emotionally charged weeks as an oncologist, I sometimes find myself so distracted and so affected by the plight of my patients that I can hear the nervous energy rumbling inside me. On these days, equanimity seems a thousand miles away but patients grappling with their own problems benefit from their doctors’ poise and quiet confidence, which calls for the right amount of professional detachment from even the stuff of nightmares.

A dear and deceased colleague of mine used to caution his young charges to avoid becoming excessively and needlessly involved in the “froth and bubble” of a life in medicine. In other words, doctors must find a way to neither be tormented by regret nor be inebriated by success. To keep contributing to the lives of others, our patients and our loved ones, we must yank our way back to sober reality. By openly pleading for a return to normality, Harris has shown us how to quietly take stock of major events in life.

Legend has it that a sultan once asked King Solomon to invent a sentence that was appropriate for all times and situations. King Solomon’s short reply arrived inscribed in a ring, “This too shall pass.” I have always found it consoling to reflect on this counsel amid the dizzying highs and despondent lows of patient care.

One hopes that the emotional tumult generated by this incredible event passes for everyone concerned. It remains to be seen whether Richard Harris will ever tell his story to the public, but I genuinely hope that he will someday see fit to share with doctors the principles and values he holds dear. I think we could all learn a great deal from his dignified conduct and our patients would be grateful.

 

Two lessons we can all learn from Dr Richard Harris

In a time of bewildered young children crying for their parents at border crossings, the world found an antidote in the meticulous rescue of another group of youngsters trapped in a dangerous cave from which emerging alive was considered improbable. Australians had their own special stake in the matter as we watched a hereto unknown anaesthetist from Adelaide, Dr Richard Harris, apply his rare and unique deep cave-diving skills to the task. Such was his acclaim in familiar circles that British experts specifically requested his expertise to help navigate the cave system said to be among the most dangerous in the world. Reports mentioned he elected to stay in the cave with the trapped boys for three days, personally ensuring that every child was safe to evacuate. He was the last person out. It must have been the most onerous of responsibilities tethered to the hopes of parents, a nation, and indeed the whole world. As this monumental feat of human achievement unfolded, we were glued to our screens. Four children came out, then another four. And suddenly, apart from the tragic loss of a Thai navy diver, Saman Kunan, every single person was safe. The aftermath of the heroic effort was filled with interviews and inevitably, the chatter about the blockbuster movie that must surely follow such an incredible story. Anyone who had anything to do with the rescue had a story to tell. But perhaps because I am a doctor myself, it was the conduct of Richard Harris that captivated my attention and had me thinking about what doctors could learn from it. His valour and calm during a crisis were inarguably heroic but to use him as a measuring stick is to invite oneself to an ordinary life. Yet, medicine is going through its own crisis of trust and identity and doctors are looking to be inspired. Compared to others, Harris has been quiet but here are two thoughts he expressed that I admire. It wasnt me, it was us Speaking of the rescue effort, Harris heralded the work of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of people involved, reassuring us that the part he played had been made out to be a lot more noble than it actually was. He added that he considered himself lucky to have possessed some useful skills, an understatement if there were one, but one that made me proud to think of him as a fellow doctor. It is said that there is no I in team but there are, in fact, two Is in medicine. The culture of medicine tends to reward individual merit above collective effort. The competition and jostling for higher ground starts early and continues as a constant search for better grants, more patients and greater status that unintentionally swallows the idea of being a good human being. Of course, the two arent mutually exclusive but as one of my best residents reflected sadly after missing out on a job, There was no bonus for being kind. Doctors and nurses are fortunate to receive abundant thanks for their contribution to patient care. Indeed, places like the chemotherapy ward are never short of flowers, chocolates and home-baked delicacies. But its rare to acknowledge the hundreds of people who keep the wheels of healthcare turning. Before I arrive at work, multiple people have ensured the smooth running of my day, among them the porters, cleaners, clerical staff, cooks and volunteers we all take for granted. I will never forget the sight of a cleaner sobbing in a corner at the impending death of a patient. Until then, I had regarded it as my loss, but she taught me that we were all in it together. Yet, the plaudits most often go to the most visible people. By deliberately shining the limelight on the people least likely to be acknowledged, Harris has shown himself to be a shining example of how it is possible for ones personal attributes to co-exist with generosity towards others. There are few instant fixes in medicine but readily sharing individual acclaim may be an easy one. I would like to get back to normal life With camera crews swarming and people canvassing options on which star could portray ones real-life heroism, it must be tempting at the very least to be a part of the clamour in the instant before the worlds attention shifts elsewhere. But after speaking his modest piece, the doctor simply stepped away. Sadly, as Harris was rescuing others, his own father died, which must surely add to the burden of his emotions and is reason enough to fade from publicity. But I couldnt help thinking that his desire to get back to normality also showed a profound wisdom and a welcome sense of perspective that is elusive for so many. While most doctors dont perform cave rescues, we are witness to a tremendous amount of human drama and pathos that threaten to engulf us. Amid emotionally charged weeks as an oncologist, I sometimes find myself so distracted and so affected by the plight of my patients that I can hear the nervous energy rumbling inside me. On these days, equanimity seems a thousand miles away but patients grappling with their own problems benefit from their doctors poise and quiet confidence, which calls for the right amount of professional detachment from even the stuff of nightmares. A dear and deceased colleague of mine used to caution his young charges to avoid becoming excessively and needlessly involved in the froth and bubble of a life in medicine. In other words, doctors must find a way to neither be tormented by regret nor be inebriated by success. To keep contributing to the lives of others, our patients and our loved ones, we must yank our way back to sober reality. By openly pleading for a return to normality, Harris has shown us how to quietly take stock of major events in life. Legend has it that a sultan once asked King Solomon to invent a sentence that was appropriate for all times and situations. King Solomons short reply arrived inscribed in a ring, This too shall pass. I have always found it consoling to reflect on this counsel amid the dizzying highs and despondent lows of patient care. One hopes that the emotional tumult generated by this incredible event passes for everyone concerned. It remains to be seen whether Richard Harris will ever tell his story to the public, but I genuinely hope that he will someday see fit to share with doctors the principles and values he holds dear. I think we could all learn a great deal from his dignified conduct and our patients would be grateful.