Empathy.

The news wasn't good. The breast cancer that she thought was gone was now confirmed to be the reason for her hip hurting. First one test, then another. Eventually someone came in with the information that she'd so greatly feared. But at least now she knew.

Her fear was compounded by the fact that she knew cancer all too well. She'd seen it up close and personal as one of her parents fought it to the bitter end and, as if that weren't enough, a sibling as well. She was not naive about it or in any kind of denial about what this all meant. No, she was not. 

But she was human.

This man walked into her hospital room and loosely greeted those around her. Some family and friends had come to be with her there and this man who entered did not fall into either of those categories. He was one of her doctors and although with many diseases and hospitalizations doctors can sometimes become like family, this man did not seem interested in that at all. 

His voice was tight and disconnected. Not once was she asked how she felt today or even if she preferred to have those visitors step out of the room. Matter of fact--this was his way. 

"Sorry about the bad news," he said with forced empathy, "but, you know, we don't like it but these things happen." 

No, sir. We don't like it. And we don't like you.

He skipped right onto the business part and threw an obligatory offer to answer any questions. She had none. And so he left the room but a bitter aftertaste remained.

"I hate that man," she told one of those friends as soon as he walked out. And she was not the "hating" type. 

No, she was not.

Sometimes I used to talk to her about medical things. She was a family friend so I wasn't involved with her care but since I'm a doctor I would help to answer the things that I could. The last time we talked though it wasn't medical at all. Not at all.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"I'm hanging in," she said.

"I'm sorry about all of this. I really am."

"Me, too."

"I've been praying about peace. You know. Peace of mind. And that you aren't in pain."

"Thank you so much, Kimberly," she responded. And she meant that. I know because she was a woman of strong and unwavering faith. "Keep praying for me, okay?"

"I will."

And that was our last conversation. She made her celestial transition on Friday--the day I was born. 

Last week we talked about touch. Some welcome it, some aren't so keen on it. But here is what I know for sure--we all want genuine empathy and we all want support. I am so, so sorry that she didn't get either that day from her own doctor. He didn't have to hug her or touch her hand or any such thing.

But he could have done something.

***

Happy Monday. And may your soul rest in peace, Denise. The peace everyone deserves.