Pointed moments

So, it is done. My surgery is complete. The cytotoxic hardware has been removed from my body, and my last jagged scar has been reshaped to a gentler contour. My entire treatment path is now firmly behind me.

However, the Universe has a timing all of its own. In the same week I have surgery, my young niece is suddenly struck down with juvenile diabetes.

Through a fog of analgesia and bandages, I am excruciatingly aware of the magnitude of this diagnosis, stretching before her through all the years of her life. At the same time that I’m attempting to skip blithely away, leaving behind me linoleum waiting rooms and a succession of hypodermics, another person dear to me is entering this green-painted space. And in an enduring, not a temporary, way.

I especially feel for her for all the needles that are coming.

I have had many sharply pointed moments over the last two years. They often involve the disastrous combination of limiting food and water and then expecting to find a vein, plump, juicy and ready. I have been tended by a succession of faltering medicos, who pierce my body before losing their nerve and missing the target completely. I sense their doubt before they even begin and am never surprised when they fail repeatedly, leaving a trail of purpling pain variously up my arms, hands and even feet.

There is a solid inner wall somewhere in that moment of anticipation when the needle is poised, and only some of them know how to reach through it within themselves in order to make the necessary connection. I always know when someone will hit liquid gold on the first try. I can feel their inner guidance system merging with my body. It is as if they find the vein using a spatial sense that extends beyond their fingertips. They strike with confidence and certainty and usually cause little discomfort. I have often contemplated what this quality in my nurses and doctors is. Perhaps it is the ability to step through their own fear of pain and be fully present, fully engaged on the level of our common humanity.

Therein lies the difference between a physician and a healer. The very best, most precise, most advanced medical techniques will never be enough without the human ingredient of care, given simply from one person to another. So my hope for my niece as she starts out along a long road of medical encounters, is for treatment based on the very best of what scientific knowledge can provide, coupled with the true medicine of compassionate presence at every turn.