Cancer in Pregnancy; The End of Life; A Young Mother's Final Day

By Larry Puls @larrypulsauthor

The Death of a Mother

I walk into the room and cannot even recognize her face anymore. How far we have come over the last two years. Laying there, I see a very thin layer of skin covering her collar bone, painted with an ashen pallor. A physician's heart is crumbling. I conclude the end is very near. My desire is to leave the room. My job is to stay by her side. The smell of death is unforgettable.

I pull back the bandage and stare at her wound. There, gazing back at me is the enemy, the cancer, the "small cells" I could not eradicate—though for two years I tried—in fact, many of us tried. Looking at the wound, I see the pulsating beat of the major artery moving her skin up and down, up and down, surrounded by the advancing malignancy. Her pain meds have rendered her groggy and minimally verbal, but at least she looks comfortable. She wakes up enough to ask about end points, about timing of other treatment, about whether or not I have further plans for her. I don’t honestly want to answer those questions. How do you say "I have run out of plans"? I have no other magic pills, magic bullets, magic cocktails. I can only wait. And wait for what? I just can't verbalize that, since I don't want to think about what is to come. God is totally in control of all things now—and always has been, lest I think differently. But what I do know, from where I stand, is that there is very little time left--and that the life here before me is hanging on the edge.

Cervical Cancer, Recurrence of Cancer, A Young Mother's Story

by Larry Puls @larrypulsauthor

Recurrence of Cancer for Young Mom

Two weeks after the cesarean and her lymph node dissection, she comes back to see me. Before we discuss the tough stuff, she proudly shows me her child. Looking down at the sleeping baby, I wonder how will I explain eight positive lymph nodes, the small cell carcinoma, and give hope all in the same breath. The little girl looks so peaceful, dreaming childhood dreams. Deep slumber. An amazing gift. Her understanding of her mom’s situation will not come for years. And I question if she will ever really know her mom--or remember what she looked like. Time will answer that. Yet I know intuitively her pressing journey is about to begin, and it will be every bit as taxing as childrearing. She will need God-given strength for the marathon of therapy facing her... “Where do we go from here?” she asks. Where do we start? I ponder my first words.

Cancer in Pregnancy; A Young Mother Fights for Her Life

by Larry Puls @larrypulsauthor

Pregnancy and Cancer

Even now, I still remember the unspeakable sadness and the tragic outcome. It was twenty years ago, and counting. The events still flash back into my mind every time I walk onto the floor where the saga culminated... And ended... The beginning of the two-year journey started something like this--as my mind remembers it anyway: A colleague called and asked me to see a patient she believed had cancer... And was thirty-six weeks pregnant. 

Within an hour, a young woman walked into our facility. She was graced with beautiful long blonde hair, a subtle trace of a German accent, and a very gravid abdomen. Her pleasant smile and handshake could not hide the trepidation I sensed was trickling through her veins. I'm just sure that that morning when she woke, her life had felt so full of promise. And now in the blink of an eye, it was marked with a growing sense of uncertainty.

Fear of Elevators; A Funny Story of Cervical Cancer

By Larry Puls  @larrypulsauthor

Cervical Cancer; Embarrassing Moment

A long day on my feet. Numerous surgeries, but all of it a blessing. What else is there to do before I leave this place? I wondered, scratching my head. Two dictations, a set of charts to sign on my desk, a final talk with a family, those tasks remain. Living the dream. My desires turn toward home.

I dictate the final surgery while it remains fresh on my mind. The charts, they could wait until morning. Home just got that much closer. I make it up to the waiting room to chat with the last family of the day. So many questions, but not enough answers until I have pathology reports back. Done. Just change clothes, find the car, and I am off to that other half of my life, the family part. Leaving the final meeting, I find myself next to the public elevator, the one the hospital employees are not supposed to take. A good day. Maybe I made a difference. I hope so anyway. Realizing that no one else is around, the forbidden elevators entice me like like forbidden fruit, and they’re just five feet away. Who is going to know? I give in. I hit the down button.