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| Dan Gnagy gets medication during his chemo treatment at Strong Memorial from Linda Ullrich RN, BAN, CON to treat esophageal cancer. |
Now more than ever I'm utterly relieved I'm not the person who has to find bad things on an x-ray, read devastating results on a lab report, and take that chilling walk back to the exam room to deliver life-altering news. I'm profoundly grateful I'm not the one who has to look into the eyes of a patient and reveal a reality that will knock them to the ground and change their life forever.
I'm also deeply indebted to the doctors who are called to do what I will never have the guts to do. I am mightily impressed.
Recently I had the great fortune/misfortune/education of sitting in on an interview with Dr. Jeffrey Peters, Thoracic Surgeon and Chair of the Department of Surgery at the University of Rochester Medical Center. (Yeah, he's an articulate genius who could expound until the end of time on subjects far, far beyond my reach. Even more remarkable is his calm, thoughtful, and humble demeanor.)
During the interview he unpacked — in words I could actually understand — the nature of esophageal cancer, its precursors and possible treatments. I was especially interested in what he had to say because it's a disease that, right now, has a choke hold on one of my coworkers. And I'm embarrassed to admit that until recently I didn't fully grasp or appreciate how serious the situation was.
I learned that esophageal cancer is, in fact, an aggressive, hard-hitting bully. It sneaks stealthily around in the shadows, pretending to be average, ordinary indigestion or heartburn. And by the time it rears its ugly head and smirks "look what I've been up to," the damage has been done.
This week I learned to despise esophageal cancer for the damage it does and the lives it destroys. But I also learned to love what Dr. Peters and a staff of superstars at Wilmot Cancer Center are doing to fight it.
Take a look at Wilmot's website and see who actually makes it hum. I was overwhelmed.
The lineup of surgeons and oncologists and specialists goes on forever. As I scrolled down department after department staffed with doctors and nurses standing ready to give the care of their lives, tears started to fall. I imagined the tens of thousands of patients who had passed through their waiting rooms, had undergone batteries of tests, had heard the extremely difficult news, and had mapped out treatment plans and new treatment strategies for fighting their particular type of cancer. My heart broke for the patients who did not get a plan for recovery, but were receiving palliative care instead. I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of those who, after an arduous journey, emerged with a clean bill of health.
I wondered, at the end of the day, how caregivers handle the intense ups and downs. I wondered how many medical professionals get burned out, and how many enjoy the satisfaction of knowing they are doing exactly what they were created to do.
Dr. Peters sounds like that — he seems completely comfortable surrounded by disease and unsolved puzzles. He also seems soberly respectful of his powerful opponent. I'm glad he's there.
My friend's stage 4 cancer is "inactive" right now. He's doing well — enough so that he shared his story so others can know what to watch out for. He's a cautionary tale of the most powerful kind, and I'm grateful for his openness to others and acceptance of whatever lies ahead. I'm also grateful I got to meet his amazingly brilliant and compassionate doctors and support team.
I may be a patient at some point — any of us may be.
And if that's the case, I'm so, so glad there will be a doctor, and Wilmot, ready to walk with me.
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