– By Laura Ann White, Senior –
Laura’s work with patients constantly reminds her of the intersection between human frailty and perseverance, making her ever thankful to bear witness and provide care.
In one day I have seen flickers of light amidst deep darkness. A bleak prognosis brightened by the hope of a new beginning. One of the nurses I have worked with (we call them Clinical Coaches) explained to a patient last week that he would have to begin to operate within the realm of his “new normal,” rather than trying to squeeze his life as it is now back into an old box. I have seen a few patients do this beautifully. A good attitude goes a long way and this is especially true to the sphere of cancer.
Envision Greg, a 20-something who is nearing the end of his college career. He has plans. He has dreams. He has a brain tumor. This finding requires a craniotomy, in which much of the frontal lobe of his brain is removed. The frontal lobe is the key to our personality traits, impulse control, planning, and choice making. Daily rounds of radiation to the head are also required by this tumor. These doses leave Greg tired, confused, and to top it off he is now missing a portion of his brain that has been there for over 20 years.
Bleak.
Bleak, but oh so bright.
Here’s why: Greg is determined to make improvements. In the three weeks I have been here, I have seen him make strides toward his “new normal”. Through confusion, tears, misconstrued thoughts, lack of impulse control, and many other frustrations most of us can hardly fathom; he has moved ahead. You want to talk about resilience, inventiveness, and survivorship, talk about Greg.
Today was both bleak and bright for me. I had the privilege of witnessing Greg’s entire family surround him, along with a few friends he has made in the hospital (yes, he made friends here), as he rang the bell for his last radiation treatment. I did not feel worthy of encountering such a moment: the end of one road and the beginning of a new one, a road that could never have been anticipated.
Overwhelming joy, crossed with unspeakable grimness. The gloom met me as I climbed the stairs to my floor; a hospice patient had been admitted and he was very close to death. Yet, as the nurses and I interacted with this patient, I was so grateful for the gift of being a part of this process.
I continually feel unworthy to encounter both the grit and tenderness of cancer. Though very few words were spoken as we cared for this patient, an unexplainable reverence hung over the room. To me, the unspoken is often the most powerful. It is sad, yes, but it is so much more than just sad.