n loved the bread, despite the raw sores in her mouth and the constant vomiting. for four days, her husband toasted slice after slice in the old dented toaster that sat in the lodge’s little kitchen, slathering butter on each one until it dripped off of the edges. she ate as if there was no tomorrow.
n passed away from complications soon after. her husband could barely get the words out when he called to tell me.
n was one of my losses. someone who, no matter how many drug trials we researched and how many doctors we sought — and hassled — for advice, the outcome couldn’t be changed.
and then are people like 16-year-old p, who — after his mother sent desperate letters to canada’s top children’s hospitals pleading for the life-saving treatment that wasn’t available in his home of guatemala —boarded a plane to a wintry toronto with nothing other than the clothes he was wearing, an oxygen tank and flip flops
.
we brought him winter coats and pyjamas, and like n, notes of encouragement and connections with some of the top doctors. p is now in his second year of university.
sometimes you just know how it’s going to end. maybe there’s a subtle note in a doctor’s voice when they talk about options, or the pain is too much or the test results are just not right. but you continue to hope and do whatever you can to make a difference.