A Groundless Place

As a pre-med student majoring in psychology, I was fascinated by the brain and engrossed in my neuroscience courses. Oliver Sacks’ books filled my shelves, days spent shadowing in neurology clinics filled my summers, and research into the evolutionary origins of human cognition filled my college years. Most of my family and friends expected I would become a neurologist, dedicating my life to the intricacies of neural connections and the deficits that occur when they are disrupted. While my goals within medicine shifted toward a focus on pediatrics and public health, the brain was what brought me to medicine in the first place.

Medical school followed a predictable progression—I started by studying the basic biology of diseases, slowly layered in knowledge from endless clinical presentations and treatments, and somehow, amidst long nights and hectic days in the hospital, began to learn how to hold space for patients’ worries and pain. I grew to love staying late on my clinical rotations to hear a patient’s story, and I found inspiration in the children who exuded joy and resilience amidst heartbreaking diagnoses. I felt proud of the clinician I was becoming, and I held great expectations for how I would use my career in medicine and public health to deeply connect with my patients and the community. What I did not expect was to be diagnosed with brain cancer 10 days before my medical school graduation. I did not expect that while my friends were finishing their onboarding modules and packing their apartments, I would be sitting in a hospital bed struggling to say my name or the month of the year. I did not expect the only things racing through my head on my graduation day would be, “When can I go home and sleep?” and “Can I make it across this stage without falling?” And I certainly did not expect to have to prepare my loved ones that I may lose the ability to speak or write. Life simultaneously halted and started to move in fast forward—a whirlwind of planning for the worst, hoping for the best, and trying to accept that nothing would ever be the same.

Yet sometimes I wonder if I could have seen it coming in the sheer irony. I remember one morning during my neurology rotation as a third-year medical student when I confidently answered that my favorite part of the brain was the parietal lobe. I recounted that deficits in this area caused collections of symptoms—trouble recognizing faces, the inability to write, or the loss of the ability to distinguish left from right— that exemplified the brain’s mystery to me. I could already sense there was something uniquely terrifying and intriguing about it. Dazed but awake in the middle of my brain surgery, I heard my neurosurgeon confirm, “We found the tumor cells.” He then proceeded to cut out a piece of my parietal lobe.

I, like any good medical student, tried to be helpful. Early in medical school, I learned that the operating room is a place where one must stay calm even in the face of a crisis. It was similar now; except I was the one under the blue surgical blanket. I listened carefully as they checked for the deficits that had drawn me to medicine. I analyzed the sensations in my body assessing for tingling or loss of feeling as they stimulated my brain with an electrode. I remember the throbbing in my neck from being held in the same position for hours as I solved math equations, worked through naming f lashcards, and discussed the meaning of common metaphors. While I had expected that my medical licensing exams would determine my future as a physician, it soundly became clear that this test was the one that could take that future away.

It’s been three months since that day: the day the groundless place between patient and physician became my forever. In that time, the pathologist identified and genetically sequenced my tumor, my neuro-oncologist confirmed that it will regrow, and I have spent many slow mornings on my couch instead of working in the hospital. I have questioned, “Why me?” and “Why not me?” I search for the next best step, even when what comes next has no guarantees. I ache for the path and the timeline I had planned. I have watched my peers start residency and have heard them begin to grapple with the immense task of caring for sick patients. I sit, sometimes calmly, often restlessly, in the in-between—a patient still struggling to say, “I have brain cancer,” and a physician who, in just a few weeks, will be treating children, some of whom will inevitably have early cancer. I never expected this story to be mine.

These last three months have humbled me. Some days, it feels like nothing has changed, and I still want to make the groundbreaking impact I dreamed of before my diagnosis. On those days, I hold this inspiration close to my heart. But there are still many nights that the depth of fear and grief I have come to know in the past few months makes me wonder how else this journey can and should look. I have started to imagine a life where success is marked by how many sunsets I can linger to watch, how many afternoons I can spend on the water, and how many hours of each day I can spend with my fiancé and future children.

I think about how to carve out more space for the little moments I have come to cherish and for the people I love. I saw a community come together, larger than I had imagined and could have ever expected. They ensured that my counter was always overflowing with flowers, my freezer was always filled with ice cream, and my days always ended with affirmations that I am strong and loved. In small adventures and a houseful of laughter, they remind me that I am still capable of living a life full of joy. I’ve spent more time with them over the past few months than I ever expected to be able to. There has been something breathtaking, something magical, in the release of my old expectations.

I start my medical residency in just two weeks, and I do not know what to expect. I do not know if the scarring in my brain combined with the sleep deprivation of a 24-hour shift will trigger a seizure. I do not know how I will react when I have to tell a child and their family about a life-limiting diagnosis for the first time. I do not know how many years I will be able to clinically practice before the next surgery threatens the risk of neurological deficits. And I do not yet know all the ways that this front-row seat to suffering will change me. I hope that it will allow me to treat my future patients with deeper humanity and compassion. I hope that I always remember the peace I have come to love on a still Monday and that I may help my patients cultivate a similar peace for themselves. I’m learning to hold space for it all—the hope, the fear, the uncertainty—with more presence.

I’ll be walking into that hospital soon holding my expectations—and myself—a little more gently.

This article was featured in the December 2024 “Expectations” issue of Elephants and Tea Magazine! Click here to read our magazine issues.