Where I am

I'm almost finished seeing close to forty patients this morning, all of them with some form of malignancy in varying degrees of curability, some resigned to the idea that the days are getting shorter, and the end is nearer. It was a little past seven o'clock when I began my rounds. It rained outside: the sky was dark and sleepy, like winter mornings in Amsterdam, and the only thing missing was a cup of hot chocolate, a good book, and a pair of pajamas. The patients, too, were in good spirits, even if some of them felt pained. I met an entire family at the seventh floor. The children looked apprehensive for their age: they should be hanging out with friends instead of visiting their brother in the hospital for his third chemotherapy session. But cancer does that: not only does it distort the body in the cellular and molecular level—it is, by definition, a distorted version of humanity—it also transforms families and communities. I often wonder, as we all should, why I am where I am now. But wonder always gives way to fascination, hope, and faith in Providence whose hand is never too short to extend comfort, joy, and encouragement that transcends human understanding.


Salted egg my patient prepared for me