To find closure, I feel I owe it to myself to document fleeting thoughts and emotions I experienced during my treatment period. I shall declare myself “cured” and will be going back to work on January 18, 2010.
My first thoughts as I write: The hospital is just like a big factory. Like other huge hospitals in Hong Kong, it easily treats thousands of people a day. Staffs are like nuts and bolts in a big machine. To be cured, patients need to be able to fit into the rolling factory lines. Exceptions are unwelcome. You become a nuisance if you dare to be different, even though it’s your body—not you—that may be acting out, developing symptoms and complications that are totally unexpected.
It’s best if your body only responds in ways that are commonly observed. If anything appears other than what the doctors normally see, you are on your own. Factory products are manufactured on assembly lines. Do not expect humanistic or individualized medicine. There is no room—no time or resources—for such practice. Sometimes, no such thing is done, so no one cares to think otherwise, particularly in an OPD. I haven’t been an in-patient. I can only imagine what that must be like.
A few days before my last treatment session, I met a woman coming out of the hospital. She told me she was 85. Her husband, 91 years old, was at home because she had asked him not to accompany her, although he had offered. An energetic lady, she pretty much initiated the conversation. She had completed physiotherapy, but still had pain in her feet, so went back to the reception counter to ask if she could talk to her therapist. The counter people told her that her physio was complete and her patient card had been taken back (by the OPD). So there was no way to help her and she wouldn't be able to find out who her therapist was.
Typical! Of course, something could have been done. Her name or ID-card number could have been used to retrieve her files. But no one was ready to make the effort to help this elderly woman speak with her therapist, find some answers to her problem or negotiate further referrals and treatments.
If you are frustrated or reduced to tears as you are churned through this big factory, you have to get over it on your own. By the third week of my RT treatment, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I hated the chest tightness I felt, which was increasingly bothering me. I asked to see the oncologist. There is one available every Monday, Tuesday and Friday. But when I told this young lady doctor my problem, what I heard was, nothing much could be done. I tried to negotiate a few approaches, but none sounded workable to her. I couldn’t help bursting into tears. I cried because I felt so helpless, that nobody could help me and no one really cared. My tears were flowing for a long while, even after the consultation, even when I got home and got into bed that night, and even now as I write.
Those who are literate need to look after themselves when they fall sick. One cannot rely on the goodness of health professionals to do good for you. This is sad, because there are so many unknowns and so much medical information available, and we are often too ignorant or the experience is too novel for us to ask the right questions. This is sad, because I am a health professional.
I think of how I used to teach care of older people. If I teach undergraduates again, I wonder how I will teach them. I used to think that I taught well. My special ability is to teach people how to think, not just how to do something. But looking back, how bookish my teaching was. Being a patient has taught me new things, both as a patient and as a teacher. I think I will be a better nurse and teacher from now on. Have I told you that already? This is not good news; this is sad news. I have already been a nurse teacher for 13 years.
Breast cancer isn’t a terminal illness. It isn’t even very serious in my case—1.2 cm mucinous (slow growing) tumor, stage 1, with no lymph node involvement. Nonetheless, it is a significant event in my life. Never have I felt such an urge to do good, to be useful, to make some marks during my sojourn on this earth. I think of all the things I have done in my career. I can’t name even one thing that has had lasting impact. All the things I have done seem so trivial. By “something big,” I don’t mean something astounding in the eyes of others.
There is a nurse-in-charge, the assistant superintendent of a nursing home, who always puts me in awe when I think about her work. She doesn’t have a big name in the profession, probably not even in her section of the industry, as her organization is rather modest about the work it does. She is so dedicated to the seniors living in the home; her commitment and care for them put me to shame. There is no way that we can make everyone under our care happy. But how fortunate are the couple of hundred seniors under her care. It doesn’t matter if not all the residents in the home like her and her service; she has led her team to create a caring and thoughtful environment. She has made her mark on the lives of these residents by making the nursing home a more homey place. This is the kind of “mark” I mean.
When I am approaching the end of my life, what will I say about myself?
I am not saddened by such thoughts, only puzzled. I hope these thoughts of mine will keep on urging me to reflect and do good. I hope that going back to work and living a normal life again will not take away the passion I now have to live a meaningful life—not the meaningful life I used to think about, but one that is humble and thankful, and in which I have time to listen and care for those who need it from me.
I will sign off here. Good health to all.
For Reflections on Nursing Leadership (RNL), published by the Honor Society of Nursing, Sigma Theta Tau International.
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