How We All Live On

I entered her room with trepidation. Nineteen years old and clearly a college co-ed. The typically beige hospital walls were peppered with orange Oregon State Beavers posters. I felt a twinge of irritation as a rival Oregon Ducks fan.

“Hi,” she said, looking up from a drawing.

“Hi,” I responded. I introduced myself in my role as a medical student and the nerves returned.

Like vines, I could feel the creepers of imposter syndrome winding up my legs. For some reason older teens brought this out more. After all, we were only a few years apart. I fumbled my way through explaining the plan with her chemotherapy. She wasn’t paying attention but had returned to her drawing. She really liked the color orange. She nodded a few times occasionally letting out an “uh huh” as the pencil pressed in harder. When I finished, she looked up. “Yeah I kind of know the routine,” she said smiling. It was true. I blushed. This was her third round of chemo. She had an especially stubborn leukemia and was preparing for a stem cell transplant.

As I turned to go, she stopped me. “What do you think of this?” she asked, holding up the

drawing. It was beautiful, and I told her.

The next few weeks I found myself going back into her room frequently. Her family visited occasionally, but mostly she was alone, and pretty desperate for company. I was learning about boundaries. I told her about my life. I shared my wedding plans, told her what music I was listening to, and even my future goals as a doctor. She opened up a lot too. She wanted to be a nurse, or maybe a doctor. She’d spent so much of her life in the hospital. She really wanted to help kids. She told me about her last runs with chemo. How she’d watched others around her leave the hospital and not make it. How she was so determined to beat cancer a third time. She was fierce and bright and a force in the world.

My rotation ended and I told her I was leaving. She’d had so many providers come and go. She made me a card and I tucked it away where it lives in my nightstand—a prized possession.

Less than a year later I had matched for residency. My first rotation was infectious disease. I

remember a consult on the oncology unit—it was the room next to hers. The kid was really sick and we were consulting on anti-fungal drugs. I hadn’t thought of her in so long. I bit my lip and typed her name into the electronic medical record.

There it was. 19 year old female, deceased.

The grief wracked my body. I hurt and ached and buzzed and choked and tingled and wept. I

had experienced patients die. It’s an awful “first” for a medical student. But this felt so close to home. I felt sadness mixed with fear and guilt for not knowing for so long. Mostly I missed her.

There’s a place in the hospital where her name is written on the wall and I pass it sometimes 5 times a day. I look up and there she is. I give her a smile or a nod as I pass below. She’s my guardian angel, cheering me on. During my three years of residency I felt days of deep fatigue, hopelessness, grief, joy, embarrassment, frustration, success, and failure… but she carried me through. Her space on that wall still cheers me. I lift my chest higher, I breathe deeper, and I feel a sense of warmth when I pass by. I would give anything to go back and talk to her, take care of her, be there at the end, but what I can do is feel the endless gratitude for all she taught me and the strength she continues to give me.