2023 1st Place GHHS Essay Contest Winner
"You Are Not Alone"
Justin Abe, MS1
Saliva dribbled out of my mouth as I pulled myself with one arm along the floor and tried to yell for my parents. My head lolled into a puddle of drool and tears as I realized I had to get through this seizure alone.
For much of my life, these seizures violently reminded me that there’s always a part of my life that I can’t control. My first seizure was undoubtedly the worst– a moment when my six-year old life seemed to swerve into unknown territory. Suddenly, I was never allowed to have sleepovers and I was forced to swallow foul-tasting medication every day. I remember crying in the MRI machine, feeling terrified by the blaring noises. I was so upset that I ended up having to be sedated for my scan.
When the anesthesiologist told my parents after the MRI scan that my tonsils looked abnormally large, it felt like I would never leave the hospital. After being tagged with electrodes for a sleep study and returning for a tonsillectomy, I remember freaking out as the nurses put on an anesthesia face mask on my head.
Suddenly, I felt one of the nurse’s hands grab mine. She kneeled next to me, squeezed my hand, and offered me an encouraging smile. “It’s okay, Justin,” she said soothingly. “We’re here with you, okay?” The other nurse followed suit, holding my other hand. When another nurse entered the room, she declared, “I guess I’ll have to hold his feet then!” As I took a deep breath and fell into unconsciousness, the warm hands reminded me that I was not alone.
Fast-forward more than fifteen years later, I was almost brought to tears while reading our MD2 PBL case about Ms. Edna Ota. Ms. Ota presented to the hospital with a small cell lung cancer and based on the staging of the cancer, her prognosis was very poor. As the physician discusses the difficult decision between aggressive treatment and palliative care for her cancer, he or she holds Ms. Ota’s hand to comfort her.
Although my tonsillectomy was certainly not as significant as Ms. Ota’s cancer, I could really empathize with her experience of holding onto her provider’s hand. Although it may seem like just a small action, I believe that it is almost an unspoken message that says “I am here with you. Whatever happens, we will go through it together.” Even if the future seems uncertain and the provider cannot guarantee what will happen, it brings immense comfort that they can at least guarantee their presence.
As I have been shadowing physicians throughout my undergraduate years and through medical school, I have witnessed more and more that making a diagnosis and providing a treatment plan is not the sole responsibility of a physician. While there is only so much we can physically do to cure a patient’s ailment, as health care providers, it is certainly our job to comfort and care for our patients. If I had successfully undergone my tonsillectomy but felt isolated and alone, my entire experience would be remembered completely differently– even with a “cure,” if there is no “care,” there is something integral missing in the healing experience.
As I continue my medical training, I hope to continue growing in the humanistic aspects of medical care. I know that there will be situations in the clinic in which I don’t know what to do, but I want to make sure that I am always doing my best to care for my patients. Whether it be through hand-holding, listening with full attention, or any other means, every time I interact with a patient, I will seek to convey that “You are not alone. Whatever happens, we will go through it together.”
