Musings of a Servant of Allah
Verily in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest. (13:28)Archive for Patients
Inspiration
When I grow up, I want to be an oncologist.
Today was, by far, the best day I’ve had at hospital. Although a large part of it involved chasing up a doctor who wasn’t returning my page/calls etc….things worked themselves out, and I spent an inspiring hour or so chatting to a patient up on the medical oncology ward. It was such a privilege, listening to this man’s incredible journey through battling with cancer. He’s on his second round of chemotherapy, and I was so moved by his strength and optimism.
I told him how I would love to specialise in oncology, and he was so supportive. He said something along the lines of “I’m sure you’ll be very good at it. Imagine the comfort you’ll bring to so many patients.” Aw!
Moments like these remind me why I signed up to this degree to begin with, and I’m so grateful. Patients teach me so much. His wife dropped in towards the end of our conversation and was so touched by my presence….she insisted that I stay with him and take a thorough medical history! I already had, and would have loved to stay and chat more, but I had a dinner appointment with a good friend (*wave!*) and didn’t want to be later than I already was.
I was so moved by his honesty. He said that he felt that his world had ended when he got the results of his biopsy. The words ‘cancer’, ‘chemotherapy’ and ‘radiotherapy’ carried such negative connotations, but the multidisciplinary cancer care team was absolutely pivotal in helping him and his family move forward. They described the team as being fantastic, efficient, caring, supportive…I feel so proud to belong to such a great team of health care professionals 
Alhamdulilah.
They asked me to pop by and visit while he’s still having chemotherapy over the next few days. Again, that was so touching. I’ll make the time to do that, inshaAllah.
On another note: while I was up at the front desk of the oncology ward, hovering around and waiting for a doctor/nurse to speak to and ask for good patients to take histories from….I watched one of the doctors. He sat down, and looked so distant, and so very very sad. When I whispered a very discreet “Excuse me? I’m Raidah, a medical student…”, he immediately looked up, snapped out of it, and smiled and me with surprising warmth. Who knows what thoughts went through his mind. Did he just lose a patient? A loved one? Is he going through personal problems? Incredible, how it’s easy to forget how oncologists and other health care professionals are people too. We all have our vulnerabilities.
An ode to patients
Ordinarily, my path would never cross with the men and women whom I’ve had the privilege of speaking to, up on the hospital wards. Each of us live such different lives: diverse cultural backgrounds, faiths, socioeconomic class….and even if we did meet, it would be on a neutral grounds. Teacher/student. Neighbours. Colleagues.
Yet death, sickness and grief unite us. And the rawness of human vulnerability confronts me, each time, with every single patient I’ve met.
These patients have taught me the importance of strength in the face of adversity. Their ability to laugh amidst a sea of incredible pain. The love and concern of their family.
Mr X up on bed 25 in Ward C isn’t just a disease. He’s a human being. A person, like you and I, with hopes, fears and dreams for the future. Who has children, a wife, and parents who frustrate yet delight him, in turn. Just like you and I. A man who has experienced the richness and fullness of life, before being suddenly being struck down. Here, in hospital, he is stripped bare of his credentials, and often, his very dignity.
And when I sit there, with him, and routinely ask him the questions which I’ve been taught: history of his presenting illness, past medical history, social history, family history…..I see him at his most vulnerable.
He’s scheduled for surgery, and the surgeons are hoping to remove the cancer in his rectum, but every operation carries its risks. I ask him if he had ever consulted his GP about the blood in his stool….he slowly shakes his head, looks away, and says, softly, “I guess I should have.”
While I sit there with my pen and notepad, asking him these questions, I glean a snapshot of his life – yet how can I fathom how he truly feels? Words can only convey so much. Words are sterile and safe. Words describe the symptoms, signs and disease processes, but words can never encapsulate the terror, fear, shock and grief he may be feeling. I can describe to you, in wonderous detail, the colour, consistency, and odour of his faeces, yet I am not trained for anything beyond that. His agony is his own. I grieve over that distance.
He looks tired. I stop, thank him for his time, and leave the ward, wondering if he’ll manage to return to his family. For all I know, that could be the one of the final medical histories he is able to give.
Being in medical school has placed me at the interface between life and death.
Humanity at its most vulnerable.
