I Cried In Front of My Patient

And she wrote me a letter

Photo by Kate Macate on Unsplash

I cried in front of my patient.

Yes, I know, it should have been the other way around. But there I stood, tears welling in my eyes, facing a panicked patient.

---

We each have different triggers for our tears and I find that these change as we go through life. I can still remember the first book that made me cry. Fourth grade, sitting in the window seat of my second-story bedroom with tree branches rustling outside, feeling like I was reading in a treehouse. Tears streaming down my cheeks as I read the last page of Where the Red Fern Grows.

On the other hand, sappy movies or love stories rarely got to me. Until I found the love of my life. Now I am an emotional puddle every time I read or watch a story about the loss of a spouse. While tempted to let this bother me, I believe that this is what makes love worth it. To have a love so deep and strong that it is painful to think of any alternative.

All that to say, there are emotionally charged scenarios where I cry. But on a daily basis, I am not a weeper.

Until situations overwhelm me.

It was the perfect storm — tensions were high as one of our team providers was out of the office and those of us left behind were stretched thin. The infusion suite had been overbooked — 13 chairs, 15 patients. And chemotherapy infusions are long. Think 3-6+ hours. Those 13 patients were not leaving their chairs anytime soon. And then it happened. A patient showed up for their first treatment…that had accidentally been unscheduled.

Make that 13 chairs, 16 patients.

I was in my second year of working as a PA and it was going much smoother than year one. I had seen my fair share of tears that first year — from being overworked and overwhelmed, to feeling like I was given too much autonomy too fast, to worrying about my patients while I learned to balance work and life. Yet I never broke down during the workday. (There was never time for that anyway, but that is besides the point). This was about to be a new situation for me.

I had pulled the unscheduled patient and her husband into a side room to explain the dilemma in private. As the cherry on top, one of her medications had been denied by insurance.

This was her first dose and she was still in the early stages of newly-diagnosed-cancer-panic. This is a very common, justified state of being where patients and caregivers are trying to digest all of the new information. It takes time to settle into the plethora of changes, which generally happens after a few rounds of treatment when they know what to expect. But until then, many are usually going through the motions with a glazed look. In this case, my patient’s eyes were wide open in pure panic.

Not ideal, but understandable.

I apologized that there was not a seat — but promised to go look for any alternative option. If I could just find her a place to sit, we could give the chemotherapy without the immunotherapy that insurance had denied (which, of course, we were going to fight).

As I entered the buzzing infusion room, I already knew there was no option for her to stay. But I had to ask. And the nurse had to confirm what I already knew — there was no way.

What I should have done in that moment, as I felt the stress building and tears filling my eyes, was step into another room and compose myself. The problem is the patient and her husband were standing in a room with a large window — facing me as I turned around.

So I cried in front of my patient.

I knew how much starting treatment meant to her and felt terrible turning her away. Somehow I was able to get the words out — we will fight with insurance to get approval for the immunotherapy, I am sorry we do not have a chair for you today, can you come back tomorrow to start treatment?

Her demeanor changed as she reached out her arm to console me.

While a sweet gesture, I don’t know if that made it better or worse. I cry more when being comforted. Somehow, it seemed to diffuse the situation and they had both calmed down. Yes, they understood and could come back tomorrow for treatment.

Aside from my embarrassment, I did not give the interaction much more thought (meaning, I ruminated over the interaction for the next week and hoped it was never mentioned again).

Until I got a letter in the mail.

Dear Cheyenne,

I will never forget what a very difficult thing you did for me and you did it in the best way possible…I appreciate your humanity, and that you showed vulnerability in such a stressful situation was somehow very comforting and calming for me as a patient.

Her kind words were a healing balm that put my mind at ease.

Next time, I still plan to take my stress-induced tears into the back room. But in this situation I learned that vulnerability has its place. I am so grateful for understanding patients who recognize we are all human.

We all cry.

Thank you for being here,

This post was inspired by The Carer Mentor Collaboration ‘Caring About Crying’ as shared by

Kristina Adams Waldorf, MD

(After He Said Cancer) and

Victoria

(Carer Mentor). Thank you both for encouraging vulnerability and for sharing your stories.

If any of you, dear readers, have a situation you’d like to share, please do so in the comments below. Community is built on sharing.