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.
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.
But he could have done something.
***
Happy Monday. And may your soul rest in peace, Denise. The peace everyone deserves.
When my friend Kathleen was first diagnosed with cancer her doctor was just like that one- the one who wouldn't touch if his life depended on it unless it was through a medical gown during an exam. Personality zero. Bedside manner- abysmal.
ReplyDeleteAnd you know what else? He was a horrible doctor. Told her she was going to die and left the room.
She found another doctor who touches like crazy- shoulders, hearts, deep hugs. Now she's riding across the country on the back of a Harley. Two years later. Yeah, she's still going to die (so are we) but she's not there yet by any means.
I love the idea of her riding across country on the back of a Harley. I am not usually a fan of motorcycles but in this instance I am.
DeleteI'll pray tonight for her eternal peace.
ReplyDeleteYour Friend, m.
I bet she'd appreciate that. Thanks, Mark. I've missed you and hope you, Fred and the kids are well.
DeleteI knew before I read this that it was going to make me cry. I'm really sorry to hear about your friend. This isn't the road we would have chosen, but it is the road home.
ReplyDeleteYou know better than I do, Lisa. She was really a friend of my dad's that I spoke to several times upon his request. Though we weren't close, I know that she or any other patient doesn't deserve to receive such a callous approach to care during such a vulnerable time.
DeleteI agree, There is nothing more shocking to the soul than to here the word metestasized spoken in a sentence about you. Your friend deserved to have someone with a heart tell her that.I have been continually shocked by the stories about how people are told that they have cancer. I was blessed to be surrounded by compassionate people on the day that I was diagnosed, but that is usually not the case. Unfortunately most hear the news with a phone call from someone they do not know. That disturbs me to my core, but the callousness of your friends doctor is inexcusable.
DeleteI'm sorry for this loss. I'm glad that she had you, that you as a doctor represent the finest of not only doctors, but human beings. I never understand why some doctors lack empathy, or seem to. When people make excuses about it -- oh, I'd rather have an asshole that's really a great doctor than a nice person who's half-assed -- I think, why not expect and want both? There are PLENTY of doctors, in my experience, who have both.
ReplyDeleteIt's funny. When my dad used to ask me to speak to his friends about medical questions, I used to groan. Later I had this epiphany that I wouldn't be a doctor were it not for him. I am glad that I was able to talk to her and am also glad that the last time I did that it wasn't all science. And yes, there are PLENTY that have empathy and who are smart.
DeleteI am so sorry you lost your friend and she wasn't comforted when she needed it. I am about as anti touch as they come. LOL I just shivered thinking about it. Sometimes I think if I was a child now they would put me on the autism spectrum. Anyway, this morning I had a diagnostic mammogram and it was negative. Praise the Lord. I don't know how they do it there, but here they do the mammogram and then the Dr looks at it and determines if you need more testing right then. I had the greatest Dr. that gave me my results and I wanted to hug her after she went over my results with me. I didn't, but dang it I wanted to.
ReplyDeleteIt sounds like that doctor connected with you and even if y'all didn't get to hug it out I'm glad you felt happy with your care. :)
DeleteSo sad about your friend. Not all doctors have your touch, and I wish more of them did. My mom's first oncologist was a dear woman, kind and caring, her second, all business, no connection, no touch. It's a shame there aren't more good ones out there.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing Denise with us. I'm sorry for your loss, and wish her peace.
I wish Denise peace, too. Thanks.
DeleteI'm so sorry for your loss. I am glad, though, that you were there for your friend. I know it made all the difference.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad that my dad has never been shy about asking me to speak to someone. In this instance, it probably made a real difference.
DeleteYou wonder why some one would choose medical oncology over all other specialties if they don't have the gift of touch or human connection, don't you? It's not as if the business of oncology is going to change over night. Your career consists of a lot of fine, top notch medicine, research and all that, but it also consists of connecting with people at a very vulnerable time and over a long period. why oh why would someone choose that if they weren't comfortable with uncomfortable situations? It never ceases to amaze me. I see many with the gift and sadly, a few without. Everyone is allowed a bad day but every single patient is counting on you to make them feel at least a bit better about their situation so office hours are not the time to indulge in YOUR "bad day." OK I am off the soap box, your turn.
ReplyDeletei'm not an oncologist but I totally feel you on that soap box!
DeleteI am so sorry for your loss and so sorry for that doctor that he is missing out on such an essential part of life, the human connection. And, really, how do you lead an authentic life without that essential element. So, yes,I feel for your friend that she did not have a more empathetic medical professional but, obviously, she had you as her friend so that means that her life was authentic and valued and true.
ReplyDeleteHappy Birthday, Doc! I am so glad you are here...
Love, Coach B
Thank you for the birthday wishes. We all just do what we can.
Delete