1st Place 2022 GHHS Essay Contest Winner

With Regrets

By Melia Takakusagi

Everyone says that medical school is the time to discover your passions, build relationships, and finally begin to learn about what it takes to work in your dream career. What they don’t tell you about medical school are the regrets. I regret not taking my hānai (second) mother to her chemotherapy appointments after her third recurrence of breast cancer because ironically, I was on the neighboring island busy studying about tumors. I regret not telling her I loved her one last time while she was still conscious because I was taking exams that morning. I regret not telling my great-grandmother goodbye and how grateful I was for all her prayers because I was miles away learning how to deliver bad news. I regret not being able to support my aunt throughout her final rounds of dialysis because I was in PBL discovering how to become a more compassionate doctor to geriatric patients. I regret not always being there for my loved ones.

I am often reminded of my regrets in my interactions with patients. I saw my hānai mother in the man who was in his final stages of colon cancer. After changing his ostomy bag, I took care in helping him into his robe, slipped his feet into house shoes, and made sure to give his dog a treat before I left. I paid attention to these details knowing my hānai mother valued comfort above all else and cherished her emotional support dog like her own child. I saw my great-grandmother in the 94-year-old man with the loud heart murmur who will remain unconscious in bed until he takes his last breath. When I looked around at the faces of the mourning family, their grief reflected mine after hearing the news of my great-grandmother’s death, which I had yet to process from a few days prior. I took extra care brushing and styling their grandfather’s hair and straightened the wrinkles in his gown because I knew my great-grandmother would have wanted to look presentable even in her last moments. I saw my aunt in the man with major depressive disorder who isolated himself in bed all day, causing rashes to form over his body. I put his hand in mine and told him he could squeeze as hard as he wanted as his wounds were being cleaned, trying to convey that he was not alone in his pain. My hand was still tender by the time we reached the next patient and I hoped to myself that someone was also there to hold my aunt's hand when she was in pain.

Despite all my regrets, I have found appreciation in healthcare. I appreciate the palliative care physician who took the pain away from my hānai mother as the cancer metastasized to her bones and brain, gifting her the ability to peacefully pass away at home surrounded by love. I appreciate the ICU staff who resuscitated my great-grandmother after her myocardial infarction, giving my family just enough time to hear her reminisce about her favorite moments before her final goodbye. I appreciate the nursing home staff who made my aunt comfortable in her last days despite how terrifying it must have been to be alone in an unfamiliar environment, separated from her family during the pandemic.

I don’t know if or when my regrets will ever dissipate into acceptance, but it has triggered a realization I cannot overlook. Every patient I interact with reflects my regret; the hand I was never able to hold and the goodbye I was never able to express. Yet at the same time, my regrets have made me appreciate the time I have with my loved ones as well as my patients. I hope the care I have for my patients can ease the regrets of their family and friends who couldn’t be there for their loved ones during their final moments.