A Day in Oncology: Lessons from My Patients

I’ve been working in oncology for almost five years, and I still haven’t learned how to balance caring enough without caring too much. Some patients and families make that balance impossible. I love getting to know them—but that connection comes with a risk. The deeper I know them, the harder it is to let them go.

Our patients are typically admitted for 30 to 60 days. In that time, we fight alongside them. We administer chemo, transfuse blood, protect them when their immune systems vanish, and respond to every fever, every lab result, every moment of weakness. We hold their hands. We hold their families. We don’t stop—because if we do, cancer wins.

And sometimes, despite everything, we still lose.

I recently lost a patient in his 40s. He had two young children and a devoted wife. He was kind, grateful, and never once complained. I remember giving him his very first dose of chemo—what we call C1D1. That moment always feels sacred to me. It’s the beginning of the fight, the first step toward hope.

His daughter was there that day. He didn’t want her to be afraid, so he had her sit at the foot of his bed while I pushed a neon-red syringe of chemo into his veins. He asked me to explain everything to her, step by step. It was one of the bravest moments I’ve ever witnessed.

When I saw his name on the admission list again, my heart sank. He was supposed to be preparing for a bone marrow transplant at Stanford. But he had developed a neutropenic fever—an infection with no immune system to fight it. We ran every test, started broad-spectrum antibiotics, and waited. Time he didn’t have.

His condition deteriorated rapidly. Liver failure. Kidney failure. The infection crossed the blood-brain barrier and formed abscesses. After his death, we learned it was a rare mucoid fungal infection—something that would barely touch a healthy person, but for him, it was fatal.

Those three days were brutal. I did everything I could. I watched his wife cry, his doctors scramble, and his body fail. I begged him to take pain meds. I watched the clock tick down. And on the final day, he chose peace. He declined intubation and signed a DNR. He was so brave.

His children came to say goodbye. His wife held his hand. His parents watched their son slip away. I’m crying as I write this. So much fight. So much love. So much life… gone.

His wife invited me to the funeral. It was a beautiful gesture, but I’ve decided not to attend. I need to protect my mental health. I want to know my patients, to honor their stories—but I’m still learning how to carry their loss without losing myself.

I’m still searching for that balance.

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Reflection:

Some lives leave a mark that never fades. This patient reminded me that bravery isn’t just about fighting—it’s about knowing when to let go. I carry his story with me, and I hope it reminds others that behind every diagnosis is a family, a fight, and a love worth honoring.