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Published Articles
Reflections from RuthAnn Lobo
Kind looks, kind words, kind acts, and warm handshakes-these are secondary means of
grace when men (and women) are in trouble and are fighting their unseen battles. - John
Hall
The hospital floor was quiet with the exception of an occasional padded footfall by a nurse
efficiently going about her duties on the evening following my surgery. The aromas of the
supper hour had long since succumbed to the crisp, antiseptic smell that lingered in the
visitor’s nose beyond the elevator and into the parking lot. The lights in my room had
been lowered as I lay in bed with my thoughts of what had been and what was to come.
Breast cancer. Not in my wildest dreams had there been room for, or the possibility or
expectation of breast cancer. Neither my plans nor my hopes for the future held even a
consideration of breast cancer. And yet there it was. Suddenly. Without warning....the
great interrupter of life. As my hand explored the bandage where once my breast had
been, I thought about how my life would never again be the same.
She appeared in the doorway of my room. Her uniform was much more casual than the
white, crisply starched cap and dress that identified the nurse in my childhood storybooks.
Her face was kind, her voice friendly as she engaged me in conversation. Her mother had
been diagnosed with breast cancer and had undergone a mastectomy as well as
chemotherapy; she had lost her hair and purchased a prosthesis. The good news was that
her mother was well; she had survived the surgery and the treatment and was getting on
with her life. Hang in there she said. Let me know if you have any questions. Her words
of hope hugged me tightly as I drifted off to sleep.
She was one of many in a long line of healthcare professionals who recognized that my
needs on my journey towards wellness exceeded routine physical care. She recognized
that my emotions were as much in need of a loving word as my body was of the
chemotherapy that was to follow.
It was five days after the removal of my breast that I learned twenty-eight out of thirty-
three lymph nodes had tested positive. The oncologist had scheduled me at the end of the
day so that there were neither interruptions nor a sense of hurry as she outlined my
choices of treatment. She patiently repeated the information that tumbled over my
horrified and denying ears . She patiently answered question upon question as I struggled
to find a thread of hope in the message before me. Stunned by the news, I traveled home
in a state of shock that quickly transgressed to fear and then depression. But I kept
replaying one glimmer of hope I had heard during the afternoon’s visit. My oncologist
had repeatedly referred to the treatments currently available in 1994 and then she had
clarified, “I keep talking in the present tense because things are changing so rapidly in the
treatment of breast cancer that we don’t know what new and better treatments are on the
horizon.”
It was obvious that I was in trouble. I didn’t need statistics to tell me that. A later visit
with my surgeon resulted in an agreement to avoid statistics and to focus on the best
pathways to healing. “As of today you are cancer-free,” he said, “but you need as much
chemotherapy as you can get. Besides, the only thing that matters in statistics,”he
continued, “ is which end you are in.” A ray of hope. I wanted to hug him. In fact, I think
I did hug him. He encouraged visits to several well-know cancer centers in order to
consult with some of the top people in the field.
My first consultation was with the administrative nurse responsible for the supervision of
clinical trials at a well-known hospital in Hartford, Connecticut. She outlined the clinical
trial available to me. Her professional manner and obvious knowledge fostered my trust in
her expertise, but it was her soothing voice and caring tone that quieted my nerves and
made the treatment that loomed ahead less frightening.
I traveled for a basis of comparison to a well-known cancer hospital in the east. It was
crowded and bustling: efficiency invisibly stamped on each step of the process from entry,
testing, to examination. An effort had been made to increase a patient’s comfort level
through color and plantings in the large waiting area, but it could not mask the sorrow of
parents holding bald and sickly children. The first doctor I saw whisked into the
examining room with my records in tow. He asked pertinent questions which have since
been forgotten, but his nervous mannerisms remain lodged in my memory. I kept
wondering if he was more fearful of my prognosis than I was. He was followed by a
second specialist whose likeness to Orville Redenbacher, right down to the bow tie, was
so striking I had to keep myself from smiling. He reviewed his recommended protocol
which was identical to that outlined for me in Hartford. Comforted by the knowledge that
my proposed medical treatment in Connecticut was the best available, I headed for home,
but not before Orville’s likeness offered one last lingering comment. “On a positive note,”
said he as my eyes focused on his bow tie, “ Yours is the kind of cancer that chemotherapy
goes after.” It was the most important thing I heard that afternoon.
I remember clearly my first visit to the cancer center in Hartford. I was scheduled to meet
the nurse who would administer the chemotherapy prescribed by the clinical trial in which
I had agreed to participate. Summoning the inner strength to face the unknown that lay
ahead, I entered the cancer center. I was struck by the friendliness of the people I
encountered. The parking valet greeted me not with a look of pity but with genuine
warmth and kindness. The receptionist magnified her sincere offer of assistance with a
heartfelt smile. Fresh flowers were a reminder that after the cold of winter comes the
promise of spring. I was given a tour of the facility and shown the rooms where I would
undergo treatment. I was introduced to the nutritionist and the social worker. And I
spent time with the nurse who would stand by my side with words of explanation and
encouragement through three months of treatment; the same nurse who would later tell
me that her grandmother had had the same lymph node involvement as I had and was, so
many years later, still alive and leading a wonderful life. My wounded emotions were
caressed with every smile and word of hope that I encountered that day; I left knowing I
was in very good hands.
As the healing process unfolded, I became ever aware of the delicate bond between
medical treatment and its delivery. Never doubting that my treatment was the best
available, I discovered a growing appreciation for those who innately knew that I was
battling unseen demons as well. Careful never to breach the fine line between
professionalism and intrusion, they managed through a look or a word to impart a
message that said,“We are in this together.” Bone scans, mammograms, x-rays delivered
routinely without the slightest suggestion that a woman missing one breast is in any way
out of the norm. Blood tests given with regard to which arm can or cannot be used.
Shared stories of remarkable recoveries, life after cancer, countless survivors. Tips on
healthy lifestyles... great buys on wigs.... .
I think often about those who are in the healthcare profession. I marvel at their ability to
confront the adversity of others day in and day out while providing care and a sense of
dignity. I thank them for every smile, every word of encouragement, every comfort they
have offered. I thank them for the gentleness shown to the woman who is frightened by
her first mammogram; I thank them for the sensitivity shown to cancer survivor who
relives her diagnosis each time she returns for a check-up. I thank them on behalf of every
patient who may not remember their names but who will never forget their acts of
kindness. I thank them for providing the most important gift of all.... the promise of hope.
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