By Rahul K. Parikh, M.D.
The nurse had a way of talking to my mother -- the pedantic tone of a crusty grade-school teacher. It grated on me like fingers across a chalkboard.
My mother lay in a hospital bed, tired, uncomfortable from abdominal pain, attached to I.V. lines. A couple of nights previous, while my family and I were relaxing on vacation in Los Cabos, Mexico, my brother had sent me an e-mail:
Mom's in the hospital with stomach pain. Give them a call to see what's going on.
She had started having gradually escalating stomach pain the night before to a point where her doctor sent her to the emergency room. We cut our trip short when we found out that a CT scan showed swelling in her intestine, possibly indicating colon cancer. They would have to operate and remove a piece of her large intestine to figure it out.
I arrived at the hospital the night before the operation. I was exhausted from the chaos of prematurely checking out of our hotel, rushing to the airport without a ticket, sneaking onto an evening flight, and eating no more than chips and candy along the way. None of that fatigue could compare with the looks of fatigue, uncertainty and pain on my parents' faces. My mother was tearful. She is 62 years and has the looks and energy of someone decades younger. Most people have trouble guessing her age. But that evening she looked older, and her voice trembled. It was late and all we could do was sit and wait for tomorrow.
I came back to the hospital in the morning to wait with my mom. I intended to request and review all of her test results, and obtain opinions from friends of mine who were gastroenterologists. Her doctors, with a surgeon in the lead, had agreed that given the situation, waiting for her pain and swelling to subside on antibiotics wasn't a good option. On the other hand, it's not a secret that surgeons look at the world from behind the handle of a scalpel. I was afraid they were being too aggressive.
My mother told me she had requested to have a look at her test results. So when I arrived, we called her nurse, who was young and stout, with a cherubic face. My mother asked nicely about getting her results. The nurse stopped, turned and looked at my mom with an annoyed, matter-of-fact countenance. "Now, didn't we already talk about that last night, love?" Her voice had more than a tinge of condescension. "When I get around to it, I'll bring the form for you to sign so you can get your records." Then, more loudly (my mother isn't hard of hearing), "OK?" She marched out of the room and on to other tasks.
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