When I was waiting for test results I tried to make up a description in my mind of the consequences of a bad outcome; for myself and then for my wife and my children. For myself it maybe is not too bad - straight to the grave - which is where we all go; even if we think it is too early whenever it comes to that. It is awful, it is difficult to get used to that thought - if you ever are able to…it would be worst for my wife…she is the one who has to take the blow.
When I heard of going to the cancer clinic, I began shivering all over my body. As soon as I opened the door here I felt the smell of the house of death. I can still feel this smell. The word cancer is loaded with fear, I think, and I know some persons who have died of cancer. A tumor is a tumor; uncontrolled cell division, something growing and attacking inner organs.
I react severely to the cytotoxic drugs. I feel so sick, and although I get other drugs to subdue the vomiting, the sick feeling is there, rocking my body all the way. I feel as if I am being run over by a steamroller - my whole body is reacting.
I remember when I woke up from the operation the surgeon told me they had found “islands of outgrowths” in the peritoneum, which was negative news. Something strange happened to me; all anaesthetics and all drugs disappeared from my body, my brain become crystal- clear and I thought: “How can I tell this to my wife?
"Unhook me from these machines. I am going home now and not a moment later."
More than an hour before, I stood by the bedside and watched as the team worked furiously to resuscitate him. Esophageal varices, a cluster of severely dilated and pressurized veins, had been slowly brewing within him over his many years of alcoholism. With the tension of its walls reaching the breaking point, the time bomb had exploded in a torrential gush of blood.
In the quiet conference room overlooking the hospital atrium, we sat down with our clerkship site director for the last time to wrap up some loose ends. It was here, less than a year ago, that we gathered for the very first time as a group to discuss what the rest of the year would entail. Now, we had come full circle, gathered to reflect on our experiences, our growths, and our recommendations for improving the experience for the incoming crew.
For a moment, it seemed casually regular, like our typical weekly sit downs. That feeling was broken when the director closed with some heart felt words that hit home the thought that by the turn of this week, this group will be disbanded and a new class will assemble in our stead.
"I congratulate all of you. You all worked very hard this year and you have come so far. Congratulations on surviving third year. Good luck to all of you on your future endeavours and on your final year."
We looked at each other in nostalgia, at the memories we had collectively collected within these walls. There would be no more small talks with the staff, no more late night walks through empty halls, no more patients to follow up. Though I looked forward to my two weeks off, the thought still made me feel hollow like I had lost a part of myself.
After a brief conversation about handing in our paperwork, logs, and badges, the meeting was over and we were set free. The director came around to shake all of our hands before departing with a final farewell and invitation.
"I will see you when I see you."
The room was dark and heavy with a burden of a deteriorating situation. On a bed, the patient lay. His breathing sounded difficult as he tried to suck in air hungrily from his slack mouth. The eyes stayed closed even as we walked in and greeted him. The body remained perfectly still.
For a moment, it would have been easy to imagine that perhaps this patient was sleeping; from afar, the stillness would have caused alarm. However, it was not death we were dealing with, at least not yet. As he made that slow and painful transition to that final destination, less and less of his body responded to his commands. Soon, he would lose even more functions vital to life.
Not two weeks ago, the man had been walking, speaking, eating. On our visit, all of that had changed. The nurses painted a grim picture: His terminal illness had accelerated and the man was on a downward spiral. We expected no more than two weeks.
"Are you having trouble breathing?" the doctor asked, giving him a simple binary choice.
"…H…H…Hard," he managed to whisper with tremendous difficulty.
And so went our assessment as we tried to improve his comfort. I observed as the doctor asked questions and explained the situation to the patient. He was once a very strong and independent man, husband, and father. Now he was reduced to a shadow of his former self, trapped in an ever weakening body beyond his control and beyond our capacity to cure.
His life was dictated by his disease progression now.
In being in that room, I felt a helplessness in the same way that I imagined he felt as he lay there at the mercy of his affliction. I wanted to help him so badly. I wanted to reverse the progression and turn back the clock. I wanted to give him answers and solutions. But the truth is that is never always the case and certainly not this time.
The doctor got up and said a few parting words as he left the room. For a moment, it was just me and him, alone. I tried to reassure him, but could not find the right words. Again, I stood there listening to his laboured breathing. I finally reached for his hand and gave him a gentle squeeze.
"Take care. And thank you," I said instinctively as I too left.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
A man struggled with severe depression and suicidal ideations for many years. No amount of counselling, medication, and therapy could lift him from the bleak depths of his own personal hell.
He had been involved in the loss of a life. On a dark and rainy night in the summer of yesteryear in a far and remote place, a car barrelled through a stop sign into his own. He was hurt, but she was gravely wounded. Without phone reception and without a soul in sight, he carried this stranger with him on that lonely road hoping to find help, to find anyone. In that darkness, the stranger died.
Racked with guilt and a sense of helplessness, he spiralled into depression with a burden of having not saved this person from their fate. Every night, the nightmares came; every night, he failed to save her. It was agony.
One day, the doctor tried something new. “I want to you take control of your dreams. Think of new endings to that moment. Let your thoughts carry themselves into your dreams. Change what happens.” The man was puzzled. “Perhaps imagine yourself to be Superman. Fly her to the nearest hospital. Maybe dream up an ambulance.” The man was hesitant to try, but decided with everything else they already did, what was the harm in trying?
"You do not recognize me, do you?" A stranger said to the doctor one day at a coffee shop. He looked up perplexed but suddenly recognized the man he had seen those many months before. It surprised him. The man was smiling, well kept, and spirited. The difference was night and day.
"It worked, doctor. Your dream therapy worked for me. Thank you."
"Did you save her in your dreams? Was that what it took?"
"No. I was never able to save her. But one day some months later in my dream, carrying her as I always did down that lonely road, I heard words she never spoke, but words that helped to give me closure."
"What did she say to you?"
"Thank you for not letting me die alone."
Over the past year, I have noticed a young man attending the barbershop I frequent. A tall and well-dressed adolescent who bared some resemblance to my barber, he initially started off with the scut work: sweeping the floor, greeting the customers, and watching. Always watching intently as my barber trimmed my hair.
Slowly, over time, he had begun to learn the tools of the trade - the different scissors and the brushes; the straight razor and the strop - and began to practice on the dummy heads.
Today, I went to the barbershop to find him cutting what must be his first set of heads full of hair. All the while, he was receiving pointers and tips from my barber, his father.
His eyes were focused, his body was tense, as he trimmed the weight from the man’s temple. Snip. Snip. As the locks fell to the floor, he re-examined his work. Was it too little? Was it too much?
“Remember to angle your brush up. It’ll give you more room to work with,” his father would say, and he would oblige and try again, with more angling of his left wrist. In the end, the older man seemed satisfied with the young man’s work. A sizeable tip came the trainee’s way, to which he hurriedly returned to the man.
“The cut is free. I’m still practicing.”
“You’re always going to be practicing. Besides, you’ve earned it. Keep the change.” The customer gathered himself and took his cane as he thanked the barber in training yet again. The young man was pleased.
“Next?” Of all the people waiting in the barbershop, no one took a second glance.
“Does your son know what he’s doing? I mean it’s a rookie cut,” came one snappy customer. No one moved. They wanted the expert, the experienced barber, the man who knew every bump under every patch of hair on their heads. They wanted his father. The brilliance of the man’s eyes that a moment ago seemed so alive, dulled. He put down the gown and reached for the broom.
“Sure, I’ll go,” I said, taking up his offer. He gave me a smile and motioned me to the chair. “Have a seat.”
I understood his plight. We were all in the same boat together. As learners, we depend on the good will of the people we see for us to gain experience, to be better, to become professionals. The process must start somewhere. It was time I returned this favour to another student.
“Caesar trim. Sides short. Front long,” his father called out.
“Thanks for giving me the opportunity.”
“No problem. We all have to start somewhere.”
"Hello," came a quiet voice. I glanced up from my paperwork to find a young lady leaning in across the counter. Her wavy brown hair framed a shy smile. A white coat hardened her otherwise soft and subdued attire while the red tubing and metal instrument around her neck helped identify her.
"Hello. How are you?"
"I am good. How are you?"
"Not too bad. Can I help you with something?
"Yes. I am a second year medical student. I was sent up here for our clinical skills session to assess a patient and I was hoping, if you have time, to help me with a few points on my presentation."
I stopped for a moment, unsure of myself. Could I help this student? Perhaps I am not the right one to ask. But what is the harm in trying?