BACK THEN

Images declare themselves without warning

Her hands 

Clenched together on her chest, butterfly skin, thin wrists  

I think now of those hands, and my brain declares:

posturing, decorticate

I’d thought, back then:

she’s scared, I can see it

My girls, she said

On that last good day

She blew a kiss

We caught it, returned it on our way out

I think now of that day, and my brain insists:

terminal lucidity

I’d thought, back then:

she knows we’re here

The yellow pills

Rattling in protest as they tumble into the disposal pouch 

Their collective power dissipating as they dissolve into one another

No longer of use

I think now of those pills, and my brain demands:

TK inhibitor

I’d thought, back then:

they couldn’t fix her

Scraps of memory, half-drawn observations 

Turned to stiff index cards of fact 

I thought I would remember forever

And I have, I do

But they show up on quizzes

Multiple choice questions, tests of my clinical judgment 

A patient, 59, dies at home

EMS arrives

In the backyard, daughters turn away 

She always pre-wrote what she wanted to say in our birthday cards

Is that on the test?

Now, I reassure anyone, everyone:

it’s okay

Back then, I’d thought:

how will anything be okay again?

Description:

Right before I matriculated into medical school, my mom passed away from lung cancer. As I learn new terms during oncology lectures and interact with patients on the Heme-Onc floor at the hospital, I can't help but compare who I am now with who I was while I was watching her go through her illness. Sometimes I can't decide if I'm better off for knowing the science behind the drugs that treated her or the physiology behind the way she died - but I do know that I will never forget the way I felt before I knew all of this, and that knowledge is what will make me a better doctor for patients and their families who experience loss.