leave a light on

today, we had this patient with myelodysplastic syndrome.  i did her first consult visit and she was coming back this time so we could talk about cord blood transplant.  unfortunately, her disease had progressed to acute leukemia and before we could go to transplant, she would need to have induction chemotherapy (which could be a month-long hospitalization, or maybe longer).  she and her husband had a lot of questions and we spent a lot of time answering them.

her husband was this quiet man.  she and he are both in their 60s, both with white hair. he has a beard and long hair that grows to his shoulders.  kind of hippie-ish.  he was not forceful or loud or demanding. not at all.  he was non-assuming. asked few, but thoughtful questions. and was very attentive.  didn't say much at the first visit and he didn't say that much at this visit. but what he did have was this - a hand-written graph of all her blood tests, from the time she was diagnosed until now. 

he had a graph, multiple pages taped together because it was so long - dating back to April 2009.  since that time, she had had hundreds and hundreds of blood tests done.  he had plotted out her white blood cell count, her neutrophils, monocytes, blast percentages, hemoglobin, and platelet counts.  literally, hundreds and hundreds of data points.  written in very neat writing, smudged in some areas, but carefully protected.  and color-coated.  crazy?  maybe some would think it was obsessive compulsive? maybe it is a little crazy and maybe it is a little obsessive compulsive.  but, simply enough, to me it was just a man showing his love in a way he knew how to.  something about it was very endearing. 

and, actually, because we didn't have all her records or lab results faxed over to us, it was very helpful to see what her trends had been like.

so she needed induction chemotherapy, either locally or at our hospital.  she asked where she should have it done. we said it was a standard regimen, could be done anywhere, and then she could return to our hospital for transplant.  she didn't know where to go or what to do.  and at the end, Dr. K said to her - it's ok. go home, think about it. and then you can decide.  you can come back here anytime. we'll leave a light on for you.

and that was enough. a look of relief. a moment to think about it. she looked so comforted. and they went home. they are going to decide and then call.

i got to thinking about those simple words - we'll leave a light on for you.  there is so much meaning in those words.  how nice it is to know that someone is watching out for you and is waiting for you.  i think about all the times i have driven back to GR and gotten to my brother's house so late at night - and there was always a light on for me.  when we lived in Whitehall and i used to drive back from medical school, lots of nights not getting in until past midnight, and the street would be dark and quiet, except for the little light at my parents' house that they left on for me.