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Daily
Miracles
In the Life of a Healer |
Taking It One Day At a Time
 I have just came back from the hospital to see
my patient Sofia, who is recovering from surgery.
Sofia had been my patient for years. Her
husband, a doctor, had just retired. She once served as his office manager. Sofia came for
her regular check up with some vague complaints.
She was happy that she could finally spend
time with her husband and occasionally visit her children who lived away from her.
Unfortunately, my physical exam revealed a
large pelvic mass which was confirmed to be a probable ovarian carcinoma. I referred her
to one of the best gynecologic oncologist in town affiliated with UCSD and we decide to
operate on her as co-surgeons.
When Sofia realized that she was going to
have surgery, she was adamant that she wanted to stay awake during the surgery. She was
afraid that she would never wake up. I advised her to check with the
anesthesiologist.
"In case you have to be put to sleep,
what could I do to make it easier for you?" I asked her before she left the office.
"Maybe singing my favorite song for me
while I am falling asleep," she replied. I found out that Sofia's favorite song was
"Mamma," one of my favorite Italian songs. Sofia had an English last name, I
never knew that she was Italian.
"That's also one of my favorite
songs," I replied. I told her that even recently,I bought a record of Placido Domingo
- just because it had that song.
I started to sing to Sofia, "Mama,
solo per te la mia canzone vuola..."
At first, she was looking at me then joined
me. "Mamma, sarai con me tu non sarai pui sola..."
"Doctor," interrupted Sofia. I
thought you spoke French, Haitian, Spanish and English. I never knew that you spoke
Italian."
While Sofia was telling me about Torino,
the Italian village where she was from, where they made the famous Asti Spumante, I looked
at her face. She was now a happy little girl in Italy.
"If I had to be put to sleep would you
sing it for me?" She asked.
"No Sofia," I answered. "We
will sing it together."
* * *
I called Sofia the night before the surgery
to see how she was doing. She was very distraught. Unfortunately, because of the nature of
the procedure - which could mean removing possible tumors anywhere in the abdomen - the
anesthesiologist felt that a spinal or epidural was not prudent. Sofia had to be put to
sleep.
The day of the surgery, Sofia was in tears
when I entered the operating room. She was lying on the OR table, still begging the
anesthesiologist not to put her to sleep.
"Remember, we are going to sing
together," I said.
"I am too afraid," came her
answer. "I know that I need the surgery, but I am too scared that I am not going to
wake up if I am put to sleep!"
"Do not worry," I told her.
"You have the best 'gas man' with you." I pointed at the anesthesiologist. I saw
a faint smile on Sofia's face for the first time.
I continued to talk to Sofia while the
floating nurse was trying to make her comfortable with a heated blanket in the cold
operating room. Meanwhile, the anesthesiologist was attaching the heart and oxygen
pulsimeter. "Don't worry," I said to her.
I held her trembling hand - without the IV.
As I gently stroked Sofia's forehead, I felt so sorry for her. And, as I had promised her,
we sang together "Mama, solo per te la mia canzone vuola..." while she gently
drifted to sleep.
* * *
When I went to make rounds the following
day, Sofia's nurse told me that her youngest son and her husband wanted to talk to me
before I saw her.
Sofia did not know exactly the extent of
her disease, and they wanted to know more and find the best way to tell her the bad news.
Yes, indeed, the mass in her abdomen was cancer. They had missed the gyn-oncologist when
he dropped by to see Sofia that day.
It was less than three weeks prior that my
friend, Shirley Day Williams, had passed away from breast cancer at the age of 61. A much
younger age than Sofia. It was a horrible experience. I am still mourning for her loss.
I chose to be an obstetrician and
gynecologist for the simple fact that I was afraid of pain, needles and death. My main
focus is preventive medicine - to try to catch an illness at an early stage, when there is
a greater chance of survival.
Shirley was the first person with whom I
went from diagnosis of a cancer to death. She was not only a patient, she was also a dear
friend. Sometimes it was unbearable, and we would both cry together.
One day, I was on the phone with my sister
Marise in Florida, and confided to her about the pain I was experiencing with Shirley's
sickness. Marise had bee converted to Seventh Day Adventist. She was going through a lot
of stress in her life. I could not even imagine how she was able to deal with all of it.
"My faith in God," she would tell
me from time to time, "keeps me going."
One night, Marise told me to get a pen and
paper. She wanted me to write down something to give to Shirley. It was the 'faith of the
mustard seed' prayer from the Book of Promises.
A sick person is supposed to claimed his
healing and believe that he or she has been already healed. The person should say:
"Thank you God for healing me."
When I told Shirley about the prayer, she
took the time to write it down and told me that indeed, her faith had been able to keep
her going.
It was not only her faith, but also her
family and all the support she had received from her doctors, friends, church members, her
support group through the American Cancer Society, her community and me as her
"healer" as she called me.
I was the one to find the strength to let
Shirley know that her cancer had spread to her liver. She died 12 weeks later, at home.
She had gone through one more chemotherapy
treatment, in the hope that she could increase her chance of survival. But the side
effects were horrible, she lost all her hair again and was very weak, so she decided
against receiving any further treatment.
Shirley knew very well that she was going
to die, but never lost faith. "We all have to leave this earth some day," she
said with a smile. "I guess it's my time." She was smiling the last time we
hugged each other.
I had made the promise to Shirley before
she died that I would always be the "healer" that I was to her, to all my
patients. But I was not expecting to have to go through that process in such a short time.
When I walked to the conference room where
Sofia's husband and son had been patiently waiting for me, I knew I was ready.
* * *
I talked to Sofia's husband and son for a
long time. Her son had a strong faith in God. Then it was time to convene to Sofia's room.
It was the first time that Sofia was learning the degree of her disease. She had talked to
the gyn-oncologist, but had been too drugged up to remember everything.
I spent time telling her about the
treatment to the best of my ability. I told them that the gyn-oncologist would be the one
to ask the most definite question. I only knew that Sofia was going to be placed on
chemotherapy and that her five-year survival rate was only 15 percent.
The experience of talking to a cancer
patient to tell her about her disease - with Shirley - made it much easier to talk to
Sofia. I spent time with Sofia and her family to teach them about coping mechanisms. How
faith, prayers, good nutrition, taking the chemotherapy, counseling and support group,
"were a must."
I wrote down on a piece of paper 'the
mustard seed prayer' for Sofia. "Thank you God for healing me," she'll say every
time she feels overwhelmed by her disease.
Her husband will say from time to time,
"thank you God for healing my wife."
And her son, "thank you God for
healing my mother."
Sofia was crying, all along. She had more
tears when she said that she was not going to be here for the new millennium. I told her
about living one day at a time.
That the only difference between her and I,
was that she was given sort of a deadline. I could die on my way home. We all will
eventually die. We just have to make the best of our life, day-by-day, one day at-a-time.
When I left the hospital. I realized that
two and a half hours had gone by.
Small Miracles Archive
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