Death and Dying of the Cancer Patient from a Doctor's Perspective

By Larry Puls @Larrypulsauthor

Death and Dying

I stand at the door—afraid. Take a deep breath. Just another room. One I have been in a thousand times before. Inside a bed, a bathroom, an IV pole—a friend. And while I stand there, inside my head resides angst over the unrevealed information. Still frozen in the hallway, I cannot reach out and touch the door handle. It seems so foreboding and ominous, so far away. When I finally attempt the move, a choking feeling ascends in my throat, weakening me—even for a minute. I am paralyzed. You have to go in.

My conscience compels me across the threshold. There she is on the bed, under the covers. The IV pump making its purring sound. She looks so peaceful. I could not find a more difficult way to start the day. Even now, the important words I’m wrestling through remain jumbled in my mind. Please let this cup pass from me. But there are no other volunteers. And why me? I mean really, why me? I guess I should have thought that out already, thirty-seven years ago applying to medical school. But now when I look around, feeling the pressure mount, I see the patient surrounded by an entourage of residents and students looking, no, begging, for some kind of wisdom or insight to do that which screams impossible. Fear owns me.

Somehow, I sit on the side of her bed, guardrail down. I touch her on the shoulder. She turns and smiles at me. My friend. This woman who has won my heart with her bravery, her kindness, her patience, her fortitude. Her sense of humor now pops into my mind. All the laughs we had. All the cries we had. They are all in the front of my eyes as I gaze sadly. You must tell her.

The first words, the easy ones, float delicately from my mouth. I recount all the places we’ve been. Surgery, chemotherapy, surgery again, and back to chemo—a game of leap frog. But those are not options anymore. Those choices simply won’t work… The hard words are now inching up to my mouth, knowing they must come out. But before they escape, something else happens. My eyes speak first. The teardrops fall. I can see she is reading my mind, my anguish, my vacillating heart, through my eyes. I was never good at poker. She knows. I can tell. The secret is out, albeit unspoken, but audible nonetheless. Now it has permeated her mind. I see her start to weep. A cancerous checkmate. The malignant cells grew too smart, too aggressive, too cruel.

The nausea will never cease. Weakness will consume every moment. I know all of this… But how do you tell someone such devastating news? I don’t want to enlighten her—at least not on that subject. I want to bury the needed insights, wishing I was anywhere but here. But this is my job, what I chose to do, my responsibility. Please let this cup pass from me. But the cup remains in my hand. She has the right to final closure.

Finally, real words hover between us. Both sets of our eyes, blurred with the flow of moisture. The verbal truth is on the table. We hug and I tell her what an honor it was to be involved in her life, that she gave me the privilege to share this arduous, complicated road.

I stand, look back at her one more time, and realize this is where life took me. A man, not on the sideline of life, sitting on a bench, watching everything from afar, but one who has been thrust into the trenches too often wrought with sorrow. God has made me engaged. And yes, I struggle with that not uncommonly.

Now the blessing. My broken heart reminds me of the joy of life, the joy of other souls, though sometimes they come packaged with agonizing pain, carving out deep scars—but healthy and needed scars. They tell me life is a gift and by the grace of God, I am allowed to savor that gift.