Yesterday, a phone call from a surgeon reminded me how much I will miss Uzma’s gut feeling about people. And it taught me how little it can sometimes take to break stereotypes.
Before I recount the tale, I want to share an old joke that is somewhat of a cliché in medical circles. “What is the difference between God and a surgeon?” The answer is: “God doesn’t think he is a surgeon!” The implication is that surgeons are arrogant. The stereotype goes further. Surgeons are thought to have poor bedside manner and a low opinion of those who are not surgeons and thought to get away with it only because they don’t treat patients on an ongoing basis — after the surgery and its immediate aftermath, they are done.
Back to yesterday’s call. It was from the surgical oncologist who followed Uzma regarding her screening mammograms and breast ultrasounds, did her mastectomy over 5 years ago and then followed her regarding her periodic breast MRIs. He was the one who called Uzma on that fateful Saturday more than 3 years ago letting her know that the breast MRI had incidentally detected the spread of breast cancer to the liver. After that Uzma had to leave the world of surgical oncology for good.
Following her first appointment with this same surgeon a few years before her initial diagnosis, when she was still getting screening mammography, Uzma said to me, “Hope I never have to go under the knife, but I wouldn’t mind him being my surgeon. I can tell he is an inherently nice man and good physician.” At least 9 times out of 10 her instinct about people was on the mark.
So, it’s no surprise that of all the physicians and nurse practitioners who examined and treated Uzma over the past 5 years, whether in our local hospital or at reputed one downtown, he was the only one who called me to offer condolence. He said, “I just heard today that Uzma had passed away. I am very sorry for your loss. I know I am preaching to the choir, but she was an extraordinary person, and it meant a lot to me to be her doctor.” Maybe I imagined this in my grief, but his voice seemed to quiver with sorrow.
My phone shows me that the call lasted 3 minutes. And it meant the world to me, the grieving family member of his former patient – someone he had last treated seemingly eons ago in the journey of metastatic cancer. He made me feel significant. I thought that my wife’s life and death were of meaning and significance to at least one person in the healthcare system. My heart overflows with gratitude for that.
As far as I am concerned, this one surgeon forever broke his specialty’s stereotype. He didn’t just break it, he drove a truck through it. In 3 minutes!
May his tribe increase!
[This post, published first on Left Boob Gone Rogue at www.UzmaMD.com, is republished here with minor changes. The creator of that blog was my late wife Uzma Yunus, MD. Her blog is about finding inspiration and humor in the breast cancer experience. Its themes are love, life, loss, and resilience in the face of one’s mortality. She wrote and published a book named after her blog, “Left Boob Gone Rogue: My Life With Breast Cancer.” It is available as both paperback and Kindle edition on Amazon]
