“then i asked, ‘promise for what, though?'” he said, taking a big gulp of his latte. he went on to describe how he had to raise his voice a little to focus the discussion on the information that was most important to him. “can you believe that i was being asked to join a clinical trial and i didn’t even know what kind of cancer i had?”
well, yes, yes i can. in fact, just last week, someone being treated for early-stage breast cancer recounted how her doctor told her to stop crying because things could be worse. and then there was the guy at a conference last month who shared a story about how he told his doctor that he was worried that new daily headaches were a sign that brain cancer had returned — staring at his doctor’s back the whole time as he typed at his computer.
say what you want about long wait lists and overcrowded waiting rooms and burned out staff, but this sort of sloughing off of worry, concern and empathy has nothing to do with a healthcare system that’s barely standing. rather, it’s about a healthcare professional unable to take a moment to consider the human in front of them.
consider the doctor in the first case. he is well-known, with lots of big letters behind his name, a healthy supply of lauded acceptances to journals and published abstracts, effective at figuring out ways to treat disease and save lives. these are all qualities you want in the person leading your charge towards survival. other words used to describe him include: “lacking in a bedside manner;” “fast;” and “removed.” as one of his patients put it, “if you are looking for a long hug and a tissue, he’s not the one for you.”
but doesn’t that have an important role to play in what it means to care for someone? perhaps not literally a hug and a tissue, but metaphorically: empathy, compassion and concern. answering questions, noticing and acknowledging tears, and talking out worry and fear. in other words, reading your room.