I Treat Cancer, But I Couldn't Save My Friend

“In middle age, nothing good happens after midnight.”

When my phone buzzes me awake in the middle of the night, I know it is going to be bad news. The drunk dials of my 20s have been replaced by frantic revelations of cheating spouses, sick children, and new cancer diagnoses.

In middle age, nothing good happens after midnight.

Yawning, I shuffle to our kitchen, leaving my sleeping husband behind. By the time I fill a glass with water, I am alert, awake and oriented. I reread Chrissy’s words. There it is: acute myeloid leukaemia.

“Got any tricks to cure acute leukaemia, Dr. Wentworth?” my friend jokes.

Instead of responding to her humour, I demand her hospital room number. I’ll stop by on my way to work.

Immediately after hitting send, I sense my overreach and text again, apologising.

“I love that you didn’t ask,” Chrissy replies immediately. “I would have told you no.”

Professionally speaking, I know that a patient with AML has a less than a one in four chance of surviving. As a radiation oncologist, I am wary of early optimism. As her friend, I cannot consider anything else.

The medical centre is still sleeping as I turn into the visitor’s parking deck. An ambulance’s red lights sweep silently across the wet pavement in front of the Emergency Department. A man wearing a white coat leans against the wall next to the trauma bay, a glowing cigarette clutched between two of his fingers.

I run by the cafeteria to pick up black coffee for me, and breakfast for Chrissy’s husband, Robert. The elevator doors open on the sixth floor, and I swipe my employee badge to enter the bone marrow transplant unit. It’s a slight breach of protocol, but I’m OK with that.

I am a doctor here to see a patient. I am a visitor here to see my loved one.

At the nursing station, a weary coordinator directs me to Chrissy’s room. I pause in the antechamber to don a sticky, blue plastic gown. I press an N-95 mask tightly against the bridge of my nose. I struggle to put on gloves before the squirt of antibacterial gel has time to dry.

The positive pressure ventilation emits a soft whoosh as I enter. Chrissy teases me for bringing food for Robert when she knows my own house is probably out of milk. Robert rubs his eyes........

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