An Indian-origin doctor who is a specialist in palliative care at the Keck Hospital and Norris Cancer Center of the University of Southern California, has written an article in The New York Times to say that she learnt how to manage the trauma stemming from treating patients in a terminal state by witnessing a Buddhist ceremony involving the making and destruction of an intricate construction called “Sand Mandala.”
Dr.Sunita Puri said that she spent much of her time face-to-face with pain and suffering, debilitating disease and death. When she began her training,she thought she was comfortable with the idea of mortality, and with the notion that fighting death at all costs wasn’t the sole purpose of medicine. But she hadn’t expected that the type of medicine she’d chosen to practice would require a strength and perspective that medical training hadn’t offered.
It was a chance encounter with a sand painting that helped me learn how to doctor patients I knew I would lose,” Dr.Puri said, beginning her story on the encounter with the Buddhist ritual.
At the time, she was in the middle of my year-long fellowship in hospice and palliative medicine, seeing patients at a county hospital in San Jose. She’d immerse herself in learning how to treat patients living with serious illnesses: end-stage heart failure, widespread cancer and devastating strokes. She’d learned how to help families anticipate what dying looks like. It had become second nature to talk openly with patients about the severity of their diseases, and to ask them how we might work together to maximize joy, meaning and comfort in their waning lives.
Dr.Puri hoped that projecting an acceptance of death and comfort with it might soothe her patients and their families. But she had grown progressively more anxious, and occasionally despondent. She didn’t understand why death had come for a 35-year-old mother of three with a rare and aggressive cancer, or why a marathon runner was dying after a sudden heart attack when he’d been a marathon runner.”
Her parents, both Hindus, had taught her that understanding death as inevitable is necessary to appreciate the meaning and beauty of life. But knowing this didn’t make it any easier to lose patients within days of meeting them.
One of her attending physicians noticed that she’d become more withdrawn, less punctual and occasionally distracted. “This is difficult work,” the co-worker told Dr.Puri gently, reminding me that she’d need to care for herself in order to care for my patients. Dr.Puri tried massages, therapy, hiking and meditating under the shade of Marin County redwoods. But when her sadness grew stronger, she longed for a place where she might find community among others searching for support.
She found a Vietnamese Buddhist temple that was just a short drive from the hospital.”
There she whispered the Sanskrit and Punjabi prayers she’d learned as a child. Sometimes she approached the altar and spoke quietly to the statue of Buddha: Help me find the strength to do this work. Show me how. Please, take away my sadness.
One evening, the temple’s main hall was unusually crowded. People had gathered around a group of Tibetan monks hunched over a table, where they were creating a sand mandala. Metal cups filled with sand of every conceivable color — bright pink, deep navy blue, silver, maroon and mustard yellow — lined one end of the table, Dr.Puri wrote..
She remembered her father pointing out a photo of a mandala in a museum years ago, explaining that its circular shape symbolized both the cyclical nature of birth and death and the indestructible nature of the universe. Using small scrapers and metal funnels, the monks methodically piped precise amounts of sand to create an intricate geometric pattern. That first evening, they painted a flower with multi-colored petals. By the next evening, the flower was surrounded by circles of deep blue and pink and rectangles of turquoise and gold.
Following Sunday morning, the temple was overflowing with people. We all looked on as the group of brightly robed monks surrounded the mandala and began to chant in low, guttural tones, their eyes closed and palms pressed together. I stood on my toes and craned my neck to glimpse the mandala, hoping to see it encased in glass.
Instead, Dr.Puri looked on in shock as one of the monks began to move a feathery brush over the mandala, swirling together the gold and the navy, the circles and the rectangles. He moved along the edges of the table, sweeping away his work just as methodically as he had placed grains of sand in the same space, transforming the mandala from pattern to pile. Hot tears filled my eyes, not only because the mandala was gone, but because the hands that had created it were content to let it go.
The Bhagavad Gita, which my father had read to Dr.Puri as a child, emphasizes that change is the law of the universe. The Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us that “impermanence does not necessarily lead to suffering. What makes us suffer is wanting things to be permanent when they are not.” Yet it was the sweeping away of a sand painting that helped me truly understand that change and impermanence are not just spiritual tenets but laws of nature — ones that she’d struggled against and had been taught to ignore throughout much of my medical training, Just as she’d expected that the gorgeous mandala had been created in order to be preserved, she had also expected that my patient in her 30s should live to see her children graduate from college, that the marathon runner should have lived to run more races.
She’d expected, partly as a result of her medical training, to change and control what wasn’t necessarily her’s to change and control.
Accepting that life is finite wouldn’t prevent her from drawing upon science to diagnose and treat disease, to use every tool available in medicine to alleviate suffering. But she wondered if it would make it easier for her to endure the inevitability of change and loss that both her patients and she would experience. Perhaps it could bring me solace to remember that just as her patients’ lives are temporary, so is their suffering.
Dr.Puri wiped her eyes as she looked upon the remaining heap of swirled sand, itself a thing of great beauty. The monks scooped teaspoons of sand into plastic bags, handing one to each of us. Through the bag, the sand felt both tough and soft, the bright blues and pinks particularly visible when she held it up to the light.
When she returned to the hospital the next day,she thought of the mandala as she sat with a breathless man her own age dying from lung cancer, and an agitated grandmother in the final stages of dementia. Dr. Puri would feel compassion for both of them, but she didn’t leave work that day consumed with grief, withdrawn and disengaged. By accepting her patients’ circumstances, rather than fixating on their inherent tragedy, she could focus instead on changing what she could: easing breathlessness and agitation, explaining hospice services to their despondent families.
Before leaving the hospital that night, Dr. Puri removed the bag of sand from her wallet, holding it up to the light as she had so many times over the past five years when she would have needed to remind herself of the circularity of all things, of change as life’s only constant.
(Sunita Puri is the author of “That Good Night: Life and Medicine in the Eleventh Hour.”)