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One of those rare serious entries I put up every now and then As most of you know, I work at a breast care center that specializes in the treatment of breast cancer. Every week, I meet with patients for Consultation Planning, a program designed to help patients with their medical decision making. This involves me meeting up with patients for about an hour before their doctor’s appointment in order to canvass their thoughts and concerns. I help them gather their questions in a logical manner and clarify areas in need of further review from the doctor. During the doctor’s appointment, I continue to sit with the patient to ensure that her (or his) questions are adequately addressed. I guess you can say that I act as a liaison between patient and physician.
This past Monday, I met up with a woman in her mid-forties who drove down since four in the morning to San Francisco to see one of the many renowned oncologists here at UCSF. The woman was a skinny lady with short brown hair that barely touched her shoulders. She wore glasses that were neither stylish nor flattering. She was gentle in her voice and meek in appearance. She was an accountant who liked numbers in a quiet sort of way. She had two children, although she recently lost her third one due to Trisomy 13. She wore a thin sweater that reminded me of the ones my youngest sister would wear unashamedly tucked into her pajamas in the comfort of our upstairs game room. She asked me questions like whether her cough would affect any cancer treatment she would receive. She seemed very young, very sweet, very innocent. She had Stage IV cancer.
Even though I’ve been working here for only three months, this woman was my first one with metastatic disease. The cancer that was in her breast 5 years ago was taken out but had spread to her lungs, bones, and pelvis. During the appointment with her doctor, she asked about her prognosis with Herceptin antibody therapy. The doctor objectively told her that we currently have no cure for metastatic disease and for that reason, there was no proper prognosis for her. “You may live for several years or we may be talking about only a few months.” Then I saw her chin start to quiver and she started weeping. She tried to hold back her tears but couldn’t. She apologized. And at that moment I realized I couldn’t take notes anymore. When people start to cry, I feel like crying. Especially since I felt I was starting to get to know her. It has hard. It was sad. Today, as I turn 22 (one of those numbers where people tell me it’s divisible by 11), I realize how fortunate I am to be in good health. More importantly, I realize how utterly blessed I am by the Lord. There are many things that I know I take for granted: my ivy league education, my close-knit family whom I love to travel with, the money in my bank account, my absolutely amazing job here, etc. But I never realized I took life, itself, for granted. There are many things that I still don’t understand but I know one thing for certain. There is a God who loves us and has a plan for us. Life on this earth is short; yet, it is but a mere prelude to something greater, something more. Last night, I prayed for my patient and wondered how I might be able to share God with her even if it were in the subtlest of ways. I am appreciative to you all who have made me feel extra special today with your calls, text messages from Italy, pictures from England, facebook messages, singing telegrams, poems that compare me to Harry Potter, helium balloons, homemade cupcakes, surprise UPS packages, and generosity in taking me out to eat. You remind me that I am truly blessed and for that I am truly grateful. And Mom, thanks for giving birth to me.    
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