Clark is offline.
No matter how well we think we know our patients, how close we are, how supportive we try to be, we never know what their journey is really like.
The first person I ever diagnosed with cancer on my own had recurrent melanoma. He was about the same age as Clark, with two small children. I was still in my 20s then, so he was older than I, although not by much - not enough to insulate me from fear. It's easier to rationalize the deaths of the oldest old, the patients who have children and grandchildren clustered around their beds telling stories and saying "She had a good life" even as they wipe away the tears. People my own age - now that I'm here in my 50s - harder, much harder, but still not as bad as the ever-increasing number who are younger than I am.
As much as I try to stay fully present, I know I build walls - barriers to help me keep a bit of distance on the sheer terror and pain of watching younger people die. I need to feel enough to stay connected with the patients and families, but not so much that I am overwhelmed. The balance can be hard to strike. Essays like this show me a little of the private lives and jokes and loves of the people we call "patients", and help me pull a few bricks out of that wall.
I hope Rebecca finds a moment of peace today.
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2 comments:
I don't really have the right words, but I love reading stories like this. Stories of love, through pain and illness. They break my heart, but I'm comforted that they exist. That there are people who will find the strength and the courage to care for the people they love through deterioration, and pain. And people who can talk about it. I wish more people could talk about death and loss like this. I think we would be better people for hearing these narratives.
I was okay until I got to the very end.
You know, I never thought about it before but I've also always loved stories like this. I guess the first one I read was "Death, Be Not Proud" by John Gunther. Thanks for reminding me that these narratives sit in a tradition.
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