The One You Never Forget
This man. You never forget where you are when you hear the words, "your daughter has cancer." You remember the room, you remember how your heart sank, and you remember the face of the person uttering those words.... forever. It's one of those pivotal moments that alters your life forever. A moment that is then used as a measurement of time....before cancer and after cancer.
I can't even imagine having the job of being the person to shatter parents' hearts with such devastating news over and over. They must be direct, they must be sensitive, their words must be easily understood, and they must be patient as they repeat answers to the same questions. "Will she survive?" "Is this curable?" "What does this mean?" "Will she be ok?" It's like an altered reality that you're stuck in, unable to hear and comprehend the answers they're giving you. You want nothing more than 100% reassurance that your child WILL survive, that your child WILL be ok. But instead, they can't give promises, they can only give statistics. They must lay out what your new life will be. They explain the diagnosis, where it is, what it means and what they're going to do to fight it. They have to explain the in-depth ways in which experts "stage" your cancer. They explain "medications" (aka poison) that will be used, along with the short and long-term side effects; as if you have a choice to opt for something else. No.... they have to sell it to you that the horrible side effects is what's best for your child, because the alternative is worse. They must convince you that while this fight is not one you would have ever chosen in life, it's one you have to fight. They must all the while be compassionate and empathetic, pass you the kleenex and sit in silence as the news sinks in.
There's tears.
There's confusion.
There's desperation.
There's questions, LOTS of questions.
Then more tears.
And then there's hope in the plan to fight.
There's determination.
There's a shift you make to fight mode.
Wiping away tears, you then utter the words, "when can we start?"
Start fighting.
Start winning.
Start making the detour back to normal life.
To yesterday, the day before cancer.
All of this is this man's job, his career. It's his every day. I'm sure it's heavy. I'm sure it's hard. I'm sure he empties his tank every single day.
This man will forever be a part of Hazel's story. He will forever be a part of mine. I'm so grateful for his dedication to Hazel, giving her the attention he would want for his own child. He was her biggest advocate and taught us to be the same. He researched, he studied, he fought for her, even on his time off.
I'll never forget the night that he called us at home from his personal cell phone, minutes after receiving an email. He didn't have all the answers yet, but he couldn't help but call us to tell us the good news.... there was a surgical option after all! He had just received an email from a doctor stating that after going to Tumor Board out of state, Hazel was a candidate for a limb-preserving surgery! Previous to that email, we thought only radiation was our option (or surgery that would take her whole leg and half of her pelvis which didn't seem like a true option). It was a night near Christmas, during his week off. Here he was during his vacation time, still thinking of & fighting for Hazel. Instead of undivided attention during family time, he was checking his email. And instead of keeping that information to himself until the next clinic visit, he gave us a gift. He took the time to call us, delivering to us an answer to our prayers.... surgery, always the preferred approach in her situation, was not only possible, but we had a doctor saying "yes" to helping our girl. He sounded as happy as I felt. I could hear it in his voice. Now, not only was it MY Hazel, but it was OUR Hazel. He too cared deeply about her.
It's in these moments, that I'll forever be changed. God put in our lives a doctor who cared. A doctor who researched the best options for Hazel. A doctor who never stopped fighting for Hazel alongside us parents. His assessments were detailed and his questions were intentional. He always listened to my questions and never doubted my gut instincts. He was nothing but professional and classy; always dressed up with a tie & smelling of cologne. And the way he would smile and laugh at Hazel, melted my heart. He made it feel like she was one of his grandchildren, beaming with pride as she first walked to him in clinic.
I don't know if these words will ever reach him, but I hope he knows the impact he's left on our lives, and I'm sure in the lives of so many. I'm guessing it's these moments that kept him showing up for the hard day to day work all these years. We were lucky enough to get to see him on his last shift before retirement. Hazel and I wrote him a letter. How do you sum up everything he meant to us? You don't, but I tried to convey our eternal gratitude for the role he played in our lives.
Farewell Dr. Camilo. Thank you for everything! I hope we see you years from now when Hazel's rung that cherished bell. I'd be honored to then introduce you to the beautiful adult Hazel has become.
I can't even imagine having the job of being the person to shatter parents' hearts with such devastating news over and over. They must be direct, they must be sensitive, their words must be easily understood, and they must be patient as they repeat answers to the same questions. "Will she survive?" "Is this curable?" "What does this mean?" "Will she be ok?" It's like an altered reality that you're stuck in, unable to hear and comprehend the answers they're giving you. You want nothing more than 100% reassurance that your child WILL survive, that your child WILL be ok. But instead, they can't give promises, they can only give statistics. They must lay out what your new life will be. They explain the diagnosis, where it is, what it means and what they're going to do to fight it. They have to explain the in-depth ways in which experts "stage" your cancer. They explain "medications" (aka poison) that will be used, along with the short and long-term side effects; as if you have a choice to opt for something else. No.... they have to sell it to you that the horrible side effects is what's best for your child, because the alternative is worse. They must convince you that while this fight is not one you would have ever chosen in life, it's one you have to fight. They must all the while be compassionate and empathetic, pass you the kleenex and sit in silence as the news sinks in.
There's tears.
There's confusion.
There's desperation.
There's questions, LOTS of questions.
Then more tears.
And then there's hope in the plan to fight.
There's determination.
There's a shift you make to fight mode.
Wiping away tears, you then utter the words, "when can we start?"
Start fighting.
Start winning.
Start making the detour back to normal life.
To yesterday, the day before cancer.
All of this is this man's job, his career. It's his every day. I'm sure it's heavy. I'm sure it's hard. I'm sure he empties his tank every single day.
This man will forever be a part of Hazel's story. He will forever be a part of mine. I'm so grateful for his dedication to Hazel, giving her the attention he would want for his own child. He was her biggest advocate and taught us to be the same. He researched, he studied, he fought for her, even on his time off.
I'll never forget the night that he called us at home from his personal cell phone, minutes after receiving an email. He didn't have all the answers yet, but he couldn't help but call us to tell us the good news.... there was a surgical option after all! He had just received an email from a doctor stating that after going to Tumor Board out of state, Hazel was a candidate for a limb-preserving surgery! Previous to that email, we thought only radiation was our option (or surgery that would take her whole leg and half of her pelvis which didn't seem like a true option). It was a night near Christmas, during his week off. Here he was during his vacation time, still thinking of & fighting for Hazel. Instead of undivided attention during family time, he was checking his email. And instead of keeping that information to himself until the next clinic visit, he gave us a gift. He took the time to call us, delivering to us an answer to our prayers.... surgery, always the preferred approach in her situation, was not only possible, but we had a doctor saying "yes" to helping our girl. He sounded as happy as I felt. I could hear it in his voice. Now, not only was it MY Hazel, but it was OUR Hazel. He too cared deeply about her.
It's in these moments, that I'll forever be changed. God put in our lives a doctor who cared. A doctor who researched the best options for Hazel. A doctor who never stopped fighting for Hazel alongside us parents. His assessments were detailed and his questions were intentional. He always listened to my questions and never doubted my gut instincts. He was nothing but professional and classy; always dressed up with a tie & smelling of cologne. And the way he would smile and laugh at Hazel, melted my heart. He made it feel like she was one of his grandchildren, beaming with pride as she first walked to him in clinic.
I don't know if these words will ever reach him, but I hope he knows the impact he's left on our lives, and I'm sure in the lives of so many. I'm guessing it's these moments that kept him showing up for the hard day to day work all these years. We were lucky enough to get to see him on his last shift before retirement. Hazel and I wrote him a letter. How do you sum up everything he meant to us? You don't, but I tried to convey our eternal gratitude for the role he played in our lives.
Farewell Dr. Camilo. Thank you for everything! I hope we see you years from now when Hazel's rung that cherished bell. I'd be honored to then introduce you to the beautiful adult Hazel has become.
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