A letter to a member of my medical school alma mater’s 50th MD Class:
Earlier this year, I saw one of our pediatric hematology-oncology patients in a stroller as her parents pushed her around the hospital. She’d been one of our very sick patients for the majority of her very lengthy admission to hospital. When I was on call, I spent most of it praying that my pager wouldn’t be going off about her since she’s been so unwell.
This patient brightened right up when she saw me and reached out for an enthusiastic high five. (Every time she’s seen me in the past, she’d been in a lot of pain or feeling crummy from a high fever, so I was surprised she recognized me and even seemed so happy to see me.)
“I’ve got a new sleeve! It’s blue!”
Her parents laughed and explained her last PICC sleeve had gotten stretched out and she couldn’t wear it anymore. What they didn’t mention was also how emaciated their daughter had become, so the sleeve likely would not have fit for much longer even if it hadn’t stretched out.
“One more chemo,” she told me.
“One more chemo?” I asked. “Then you get to go home?”
She nodded and held out one chubby finger. “One more chemo.”
“Then you’re out of here, huh?”
She struck a superhero pose. “One more chemo and I’m outta here!”
Then she told me about wanting to go to Disney World, and how she wanted to bring her new baby sister with her. She asked her dad to push her toward the opposite end of the hospital building where the windows face a bunch of trees so she could look for deer. She excitedly asked to see some trains as we passed by a poster in one of the hallways, all while picking her nose around her NG tube.
I am a huge believer in celebrating the small victories and the little joys in life, but sometimes there are these genuinely amazing triumphs that you are so, so privileged to experience and these must be celebrated in a different way. They deserve every milligram of awe and wonder that they inspire.
That day, my little almost 4-year-old friend was my miracle. I will always be truly humbled by her brightness and I will forever be grateful to her for sharing it so unthinkingly.
To you, member of the 50th MD Class: if there is no other reason why you thought that medicine would be your calling, let it be these little miracles that you will come across in your future career. Let it be the way your patients remember you on their good days because of how you cared for them on their bad days. You are so fortunate to be here, and the world is fortunate to have you. We often forget this when we are faced with difficult decisions and surrounded by suffering, so it’s important to celebrate the healing that we are able to take part in. Healing doesn’t have to mean curing illness or suturing wounds shut–healing is sometimes as simple as finding the strength to keep trying when you’re at your lowest point. Please celebrate the people who have kept you going at the previous low points you’ve hit, and celebrate how far you’ve come since then. Continue to celebrate throughout your new career, wherever it may take you.
