WORDS MATTER

One of my favorite patients recently went on hospice. I have written about him and his wife before, but nothing could have prepared me for how quickly his cancer became out of control.

D and his wife recently set up a website to share his final journey with his family and friends. They graciously invited me to join, and I have read the entries by his wife and friends in the past few weeks. I was not sure whether I should write something, but I felt compelled last night to do so after reflecting on what D has meant to me. Here is an excerpt from that post:

I have been D's oncologist for the past three and one-half years, and it has truly been a privilege to get to know him, his wife P, and their family. While I have not met you all, I have heard countless stories about the love and devotion you have for D and that he has for you. I know that your support means the world to him. 

One is taught in medical school to remain objective and to erect a wall between one's self and one's patients. Oncology training is no different, and there are many days when people ask me, "How did you end up in this profession?" I used to tell them that I wanted to do something epic - you know, life, death, hope, fear. However, increasingly, I tell people that I am drawn to this field because of intense, yet wonderful connections with truly remarkable patients and families. This is a profession that can change you - for the better or the worse. But P and D have given me more than I could ever repay. They remind me of the importance of love, of loyalty, and of family and friends. 

Life is until further notice. Indeed, from the day one is born, life is a terminal condition. The knowledge of this fact is enough to make many lose hope. All of us will die, but how many of us truly live? Unlike you all, I only got to know Dan these last few years. However, what I have seen of D's life in that time is enough to fill a lifetime.  

I am a better person because I have known D. I would trade "objectivity" or "distance" any day for  the deep affection I have for him even though that affection will one day be accompanied by great sadness.  

I will miss D when he leaves us. However, when that time comes, I will raise a glass of Jameson (or 25 year Macallan - forgive me but the Scottish do make better whiskey than the Irish) and take comfort with the fact that D's life has been an extraordinary one and that I have had the privilege to be a part of it. 

More than anything, I wrote that entry because I wanted D to know before he left this life how much he meant to me. Words can be cheap, but words can also matter and come too late. I hope D sees my ode to him, and I hope it brings him some measure of comfort to know that he is more than the sum of his cells. D's actions, his grace, and his courage will not soon be forgotten by me or any of those whose lives he touched.