the BIG stuff

i participated in a beautiful thing today.

most of my patients are bald. it doesn't even phase me anymore. i don't expect to see hair. when i have patients with full heads of hair, i think it's weird - like something is wrong with them.

but every now and then, i am asked to shave someone's head. maybe she had some hair; short hair that has grown since her last round of chemotherapy. or stubble that seems to itch as it too falls out. but rarely, maybe never, have i shaved someone's head who has NEVER lost their hair. never have i shaved someone's head and made them cry.

and today i did. my patient is a sweet, very sick woman. and her husband loves her like nobody else. he came to me today and said, "i think today's the day. can you shave Ts head?" i responded with an of course. and then he surprised me. he said, "when you're done with her, will you shave mine?" i chuckled a bit, awkwardly, because i've never shaved anyone's head who doesn't have cancer. but why not? what a loving, kind thing to do for your wife - to show solidarity in the hardest of situations.

we took selfie's before. and my patient cried. and as the buzzer buzzed, she closed her eyes. her shoulders heaved. and her sobs were audible. it took me a while to complete the task. she had beautiful, thick hair. and to my surprise, i killed the batteries in not one, but two of our automatic razors. which meant, i couldn't complete Ts husband's head. which was okay. because he left for an hour and got a barber to do a better job that i ever could have done.

but the best part was the reveal. my patient stood up and faced the mirror with courage. she held her husband's hand and she looked and touched her fuzz. and she cried again. i watched as she and her husband cried together. and i cried too. for getting to witness such love. for being a part of peoples' lives during such BIG stuff.

grief and loss

i've been having a rough time lately. like really rough. and although i don't really want to discuss it, i do want to discuss how my experiences with anxiety, sadness, and depression may have benefited a family member of one of my patients.

yesterday i had the honor of caring for a 47 year old woman dying from her AML. she had had one transplant with relapse almost immediately following. despite more chemotherapy, donor lymphocyte infusions, and radiation, medicine could not cure her. even her second transplant failed to deliver a miracle.

by the time i got to work yesterday, my patient, her husband, and her mother had decided to change their goals of care from cure to comfort. what that means to me is - they made a good decision. a brave decision. the most loving and respectful decision for a very sick and tortured body and soul. by the time i met my patient, she was unable to respond. her drug-induced sleep looked peaceful and her expirations made soft sighs. as her fingers and toes turned blue, her husband sat beside her, holding her hands and whispering into her ear. it was a beautiful thing to witness. that is the beauty of my job. sometimes i am fortunate enough to watch death approach peacefully and for loved ones to grieve and cope in beautiful ways.

as the three of us watched a woman get closer and closer to her last breaths, we talked about the pain of losing a loved one. about how to cope with that loss. and her husband asked me what i do after hard experiences. it was so interesting - the timing of this patient and his questions. i am experiencing loss now. i am in the midst of BIG grief. and so i was candid. i told him to find healthy coping mechanisms. to try any and all he knows of. to be open to the love and support of friends and family, even when it feels foreign to accept it. to try therapy. massage. acupuncture. hypnotism. whatever works. can trying new things to be healthy ever be bad? try writing. exercise. support groups. church. reading.

my patient's husband and i came up with a good list. and i think we're going to use them all...