January 20, 2012

strength in weakness

     15th floor.  Leukemia and lymphoma ward.  My dad was admitted here twice, the second time the same day my brother died.  I knew the floor well.  I had finished up with my patient and was waiting for the elevator.  A phenomenal case.  History of FOUR different cancers.  Pulmonary embolism.  Triple coronary bypass.  A stroke.  And still alive and kicking at 80 years young.  Truly a touching experience.
    While waiting for the elevator a young guy walks slowly up with his IV pole.  He's big and broad shouldered.  I'm not exactly slight of frame but he towers over me.  Probably in his early 20s, he sports a baldness that could easily be fashionable but his absence of eyebrows says the lack of hair is due to far more grim reasons.  And below his eyebrows, his eyes catch me.  There is a yearning in them.  Something so elementally human which desired contact.  I hesitate but then decide to let my sorrow and weakness guide me into uncharted elements of human contact. 
    "Taking your pole for a walk, huh.  Have you named it yet?" I ask of him.  He must see some openess back in me which is surprising because I'm told that when I put on my white coat, I assume my old football persona.  A take charge quarterback.  But he sees something different and it comes out in his response.
    "Nah, not yet.....But I should.  It's been my sixth pole.....I've...I've just been angry for so long.  Ya know?  It took awhile to work through that."
    "It is hard.  I watched my brother fight his own battles with those poles."
    "Lymphoma?  How's he doing?" I sensed a hope in his voice that he wanted to hear a story with a happy ending.  Hear how someone beat this damned disease.  Sorry, partner.
    "He passed away this past May due to thymic cancer.  No, it's my dad who has lymphoma."
    "Geez.  You a doctor?"
    "In-training."
    "Man, you're getting called to go into cancer."
    I grimly chuckle and reply, "I know.  You sound just like my wife."
    The elevator settles down onto the first floor and the doors open.  I turn to face him,grasp his hand firmly, look him straight in the eyes, and try with all my effort to convey compassion in my own eyes, "Hey, I wish you the best in your fight."
    "You, too.  And God don't make no mistakes."

    A wise and wizened rabbi had counseled our class to engage each patient more fully.  To not be so quick to put up our defences.  To not be afraid to show our humanity.  To truly connect as human beings.  To do everything nearly opposite of what we are doctors are trained to do.  And to do so we would be graced with a more rewarding career and less chance of burning out.  I think I just had my first experience with that being true.

6 comments:

ZARZAND said...

Made my eyes water this time. You have many gifts. And the dude was right. As was the Rabbi.
sb

Anonymous said...

Loved your post, Isaac. Good luck with everything. Your strength and compassion will touch many people around you. Thanks for sharing your experiences.

Leah said...

This really touched me. One of the reasons I love MDA so much is this is how my 2 main Drs make me feel. like they really care and are fighting this with me. I just found your blog thru this post. I will be following it. God bless you.

KWilkie said...

Lost my sister on the 12th floor and my husband on the 16th floor so I can truly say it makes a difference in patients and their caregivers if their Dr and PA's take an interest in them. It takes a very strong person to do what you guys do day after day. You give strength to your patients in the battle. You're going to be great! MDA is the best!

Anonymous said...

As a newly minted BMT patient, who had AML, M2, I can say that if all doctors actually took the time to remember that their patients are human beings, not just numbers, that would be amazing. One of the hardest things, emotionally, has been working with doctors (I am at UCSF), who are barricaded and closed down. The person you met with really benefited from your openness.

Oh, I am +74 days. Fingers crossed all goes well.

Isaac van Sligtenhorst said...

Good luck with your continued BMT. It's a long, long road to hoe.