One Degree of Separation

I continue to be amazed at how small our great big world can really be. I was reminded of this today when I received an email from my sister-in-law, Peggy. She told me that a friend of hers was at a doctor's appointment in Ames, Iowa. In gabbing with the nurse, she shared that she was from Hampton, Iowa. The nurse was surprised and asked if she knew "the Badgers." Peggy's friend said she did, indeed, know us as she is friends with Peggy (married to my brother, John). It turns out this nurse worked previously at the Mayo Clinic and at Mercy Hospital in Rochester, Minnesota. She took care of me in the days following my amputation. She still remembered me, our family's name, and wondered how I was doing.

In my many medical adventures, I have had the pleasure - and the sincere privilege - of meeting so many amazing and dedicated individuals. I am not sure if it the case for other cancer survivors, but our family seemed to bond easily to those we came in contact with. Perhaps they could sense our closeness. Perhaps they enjoyed my usually pleasant demeanor amid such a terrible situation. As in my friendship with Megan, I have found in important to nurture these relationships along the way - perhaps not forever, but at least for a very special time.

I have to talk briefly about the person I consider to be my medical "hero." He is one among the many, but in his special way, the most important. He is Dr. G. He was my oncologist at Mayo. Dr. G. was always a "seasoned" doctor to me, although he only retired just a few short years ago. When he treated me, he was no doubt in the prime of his career, but I think it was his wisdom, his South African accent, and his kindness that made me see him as seasoned. 

I have tried on several occasions to describe Dr. G. to other medical professionals. It is hard to explain why he meant so much to me. Let me just say this - he got it. He got me. If you've ever had a doctor who doesn't get it and doesn't get you, you know just how important it is to have one who does. What makes a doctor who gets it? Lots of things, I guess: passion, compassion, patience, kindness, drive, desire, smarts, humor...the list goes on and on.

As a bit of a side note: My husband, Richard, was the principal at our local high school for years, and he was loved by so many. Most people hated to see Richard retire. I, on the other hand, longed to have him for myself. To rid him of the stresses that caused his blood pressure to rise and finally to have quadruple bypass surgery. I have often wondered over the years, what it might have been like to be married to a doctor as driven and committed as Dr. G. Surely it was difficult. After all, I always felt Dr. G. would do whatever it took to take care of me...that, I'm sure, meant sacrifice. So I'm sending out a thank you to Mrs. G.

The best story I can give to illustrate the kindness of Dr. G. is as follows....

Weeks before I had my leg amputated, it had started hurting. Mostly I kept this to myself (more later on this), but finally the gig was up, and I had to admit what I already knew in my heart was going on. Off to Mayo we went to investigate. Dread and fear and uncertainty filled me. All the while I pushed in down, refusing to give into its almost drowning effect. We were in a "normal" examination room at Mayo, which included a traditional examination table, a small sofa for parents, a small desk attached to the wall, and a huge window overlooking the city. We were on the 12th floor, so it was quite a view. I stood facing the view, my back to my parents and Dr. G., hearing them vaguely - as if they were at a great distance away from me - discussing plans to perform a biopsy on my leg because something had, in fact, shown up on the scan.

Then he was standing beside me. Not above me. Not far away from me, but directly beside me. He asked a simple question: "Are you scared?"

Not wanting to let my guard down, always wanting to remain stoic, I simply shook my head yes. I could have said I wasn't afraid, but I knew he sensed my fear because, like I said, he got it. And then came his most memorable words to me:

"I will take care of you."

NOT: "It will be okay."

NOT: "Don't be afraid."

NOT: "This won't be too bad."

Simply, "I will take care of you."

The thing about kids is that they sense a phony. They sense a lie. Dr. G.'s statement was truth, I felt it in my gut, and I trusted that he would do all he could to take care of me. This oh so important trust enabled me to squash my fear, at least a little bit, and focus on fighting this disease, AGAIN. His promise to take care of me flooded my heart with a relief that is frankly indescribable. 

Many years later, my friend Kathy, after hearing my stories about Dr. G. informed me that she knew him from the national meetings. She also knew another great provider of care and love, Donna, my main nurse at Mayo (and Dr. G's right hand, no doubt). When the national meeting was set to be in St. Louis, Kathy arranged for all of us to have lunch together. I took my mom with me - after all next to me, she is undoubtedly Dr. G's greatest fan. We had lunch - Kathy, Donna, Dr. G, my mom, and me. I was able to show him the fruits of his labor - ME - alive and well. It was if things had come full circle, and I could see so clearly the impact of this hero on my life.

The frustrating thing is, as I've mentioned in talks I've given, that one cannot teach the passion and intuition that graced Dr. G's interactions with his many, many, many young patients. It is like the best teacher you've ever had - they are just born to do what they do. Certainly this does not discount the many doctors out there who give their all for the cause of childhood cancer but who just do not possess that special something. Certainly they can become good doctors but perhaps will never know the "magic" that docs like Dr. G. have.

As for me, I am eternally grateful for having had my time with Dr. G. Thinking about him makes me want to be a better person. While I'm not sure I'll ever see him again, his influence on my life - both physical and emotional - will always be a part of me. And who knows - given the small world in which we live - I may just get the opportunity to thank him again. 

Somehow "thank you" just doesn't quite cut it, so instead I'll just focus on being the best person I can be - that would be the thank you most fitting of his amazing example.