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TWO AM | Laura Gilligan
It’s 2 am and your child has cancer.
You don’t know that he has cancer.
Yet.
But I know. The other residents working overnight know. Your nurse knows. My attending knows. The Emergency Department probably knew, though they’ll say they weren’t sure and needed more information and that’s why they didn’t tell you.
No one wants to be the one to tell you.
Strange, isn’t it?
All of these people, these strangers, know this life-changing fact about your child before you do.
And here I come.
A 2nd year resident. I’ve never told anyone that their child has cancer.
I do not know what kind of cancer, or what the treatment will be, or how long, or when it will start, or if he will be okay.
I don’t speak your language and you don’t understand mine.
Your child is crying because his legs hurt.
The interpreter is on the phone.
“Do you mind if I introduce myself before we start?”
His voice is the one that will deliver the news.
“What did the doctors downstairs tell you?”
“There’s an abnormality in his blood, but we don’t know what it means yet. He needs more tests.”
We do know what it means. We just want to believe it could be anything else.
Over the next 30 minutes, we talk about symptoms and family history and no, you didn’t cause this, and I’m sorry, I’m not sure exactly what type of cancer it is yet, and the call drops and I call back and “Do you mind if I introduce myself before we start?” and I’m sorry, I don’t know when the chemo will start and no, we can’t start it tonight, and yes, I can order him more pain medication, and no, it’s unlikely that his twin sister will get cancer too, and yes, he’ll probably lose his hair, and the cancer doctors will be here in the morning to answer all of your questions, and yes, I can get you some water, and I’m so sorry, try to get some sleep.
I thank the interpreter and walk out.
Take a deep breath.
Check my phone.
My next admission is here and a family is refusing antibiotics and someone needs melatonin and the cafeteria is closed but the intern got me a Diet Coke.
It’s 3 am and your child has cancer.
Laura Gilligan is a third-year pediatric resident in San Diego, planning to specialize in gastroenterology