Every Patient Is Different

Every Patient Is Different

By Spartacus Lawrence

“How much time do I have left?”

Connor knew, and others like him knew, that the first answer a doctor gives to this question is that every patient is different. The answer is a diversion tactic. He recognized the tactic and knew he would have to press past it. He wasn’t looking for a date to circle on his calendar and start a countdown clock. No, he was looking for a framework so that he could decide how to spend his remaining days, even if it were only a few.

The appointment with Dr. Noelle Vartan had been scheduled for some time. The nurse who called to confirm had suggested that he bring someone along for support. James had been at his side since childhood — bikes, little league, the long, unremarkable closeness of boys who never drifted. The friendship only got stronger as they grew older, and today he was the one person Connor could rely on the most. He was the person who checked on him daily, the one who drove him to his appointments. He would be the one to take him today to meet the doctor.

Connor had expected an exam room, the same as every other visit. Today was different. He and James were ushered into an office — small, or so it felt. An aged desk, a mug of cold coffee gone untouched, papers clustered across it. On the bookshelf, between the medical texts and the framed awards, were photos of the doctor’s family. Two leather chairs squeaked as they settled opposite the desk.

Dr. Vartan sat across from them. She requested this meeting, and the undisclosed agenda had been a source of anxiety. He knew his health was not improving. In fact, it was only getting worse. The easiest tasks now felt labored. Climbing stairs took effort. A short walk now required a break before completion. He had to plan every activity around the energy it would cost. Even getting to the appointment today had been difficult.

Ten Years Ago

The first appointment with Dr. Vartan had been ten years ago. Connor was a new patient whom his primary care doctor referred. His condition needed a specialist’s attention. He was told she was the best, that other doctors sought her advice. He made an appointment. It took several months to get that first visit, but he remained patient.

On the first visit, she met with him, reviewed his test results and the notes of his other doctors. She understood why his previous doctors referred him to her. Connor’s condition was unique, and only a few doctors knew the latest techniques for treatment. He did not show up expecting miracles. He’d hoped, the way anyone would. But he was realistic.

He’d done enough research to know what he had was rare. Dr. Vartan confirmed it. She told him that what he had did not have a treatment plan. The best course of action was to eat well and exercise. The medical options were still being developed, and he might be eligible to take part in a clinical trial. She warned him that participation did not mean a resolution. The best that researchers hoped for was halting the disease, not reversing its damage.

The one thing that Connor took away from that meeting was a timeline. She had told him that based on his current condition; he had a decade, ten years, before things got so bad that the only option left was comfort, making the remaining days painless. That sentence was heavy with its finality. He left that appointment full of emotions and unsure how to reconcile it.

He did what he always did. He went to the gym. At the gym, he entered the locker room and changed. The room had never closed in the way it did that day. He grabbed a clean towel and walked onto the gym floor. He found an elliptical in the corner. He climbed on, set the timer, and began to move. Each step cost him something new. Something that had no name only a few hours before. Ten years should feel like an eon. To Connor it felt like a prison sentence. Life had an expiration date, and this was proof of it.

He firmly planted his earbuds as upbeat tunes pumped through them. The music wasn’t loud enough that day to drown out the news. It couldn’t overcome the emotion that had built up since he left that appointment. Right now he was alone, and alone was dangerous. His mind went where it wasn’t supposed to go.

It showed him things he’d never see. His brother-in-law dancing with his niece at her wedding. The vision moved to his parents at their grandchildren’s graduation. His friends went on a whitewater rafting trip. These images were missing one thing. They were missing Connor, and he knew that life would continue without him. Even so, it made him sad, and tears ran down his face, and he let them.

No one stopped to check on Connor. The crying man was off-limits. Trainers stayed away. Other members avoided him, not wanting to be pulled into whatever was happening. He knew their distance was because of discomfort, not his, but theirs.

One Month Later

Connor allowed himself time to comprehend the news that Dr. Vartan had delivered. Ten years. He had only turned thirty on his last birthday, and ten years would provide the date chiseled on his tombstone. He carried that sentence with him for the rest of his life.

One month later, he still hadn’t fully absorbed it. But he made a pact with himself to live — not simply to get through the days, but to live fully. It meant changing his priorities. His career was no longer number one. He’d spent years on the climb. He let it go in a single thought. Instead, he promised himself that he would do the things he had put off. He would travel to the places he had always wanted to visit. He would take adventures with his friends as often as his health permitted. And he would make a damn good defense for having lived by the time that ten years came around.

Connor regularly used social media to maintain contact with old friends, school chums, and family. He took a more active role, really reading the posts, finding moments of connection, and reaching out. Before he would simply scroll and click like without giving it a second thought. The importance of today changed that. He received heartfelt messages that reassured him. He felt good when he read them, and feeling good was feeling impactful.

Not long after, James showed up at his door. He said they were going on a trip. That weekend they went camping. It wasn’t a new adventure, per se, but it started a spark, and Connor told himself that this weekend he would have fun, and he did.

They pitched a tent and started a fire. They used skewers to cook hotdogs and drank cold beer. That night was just two friends hanging out, just as they had done so many other times before. They did not discuss the diagnosis, and Connor felt relieved by that. As they sat in their folding camping chairs, they looked to the sky, identifying constellations, noting the shade of the moon, and the glow surrounding it. They chatted about inconsequential things, the kind that accumulate into a life without announcing themselves.

The weekend gave him something he hadn’t expected — a foothold. He came home steadier than he’d left. Steady enough, finally, to make the call he’d been avoiding. It had waited weeks, maybe longer. He was hesitant not because he couldn’t find the words — he had those. He knew what lay on the other end of that call.

When he finally reached for the phone, he made sure he was in a private spot and free of distractions. He sat in his favorite chair — the one in his study with a large quilt draped over the back. He relaxed as best he could, looked at the screen, and tapped the dial button.

It rang and rang, and then she answered.

“Hello,” she said. The voice sounded distracted. The television blaring in the background. She did not say another word. He could picture her on her sofa watching another game show, trying to answer the questions before the contestants.

“Hi, Mom,” Connor said. He refrained from immediately explaining the reason for his call. He allowed the conversation to breathe. He would always wait for her to ask what was new with him. She rarely did. Today he would have to make her.

“Is now a good time to chat?”

“Oh, yes… I’m just watching… Oh, honey, you got that question wrong…” She wasn’t paying attention. She never did.

“Mom, there is something that I wanted to share with you. Would you please turn off the television?” He could hear her struggling with the remote. He knew she hadn’t turned it off. She’d just hit mute.

“Okay, what is it?” she said. There was an impatience that her tone couldn’t fully conceal.

Connor paused before continuing. He explained his diagnosis and what it meant. He told her about the ten years and what the next decade would look like. Her response was the same as it was to everything. “Oh, honey, that’s nothing. Let me tell you…” Everything was about her. Your problems were just that: yours. He knew this would be her response, and he got what he expected. There was no nurturing mother, no one to absorb the weight of what he’d just said. There was a mother looking to get back to her game show.

Spending time with his friends kept his mind from drifting. They knew the path that he was on, and they continued to treat him as they had before the facts were concrete. Connor and his friends continued to hang out every week: going to karaoke night, rocking out at concerts, or catching a baseball game. The weekends were when they spent time together. Connor’s limitations were no secret; that in itself drew his friends closer, and their presence carried him through the ten years.

Mom had not changed since that first phone call. In fact, it seemed to distance her further. She had called a few months earlier to ask for a ride to the grocery store. Connor had often taken his mother shopping, so that request was not out of place. It almost felt as if she expected it. So when she called and asked again, he had to be honest with his mother.

“Mom, I don’t have the energy today to take you shopping. Can we do it some other time?” he said to her.

“I was hoping to go today. I’m your mother, you should look out for me,” she said.

“I don’t think you get it, Mom. I’m sick, and that’s why I can’t take you shopping.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll call you tomorrow when you are feeling better, but I’d prefer to go today. I need a few things to make dinner tonight.”

This is how things were with his mother. She would always flip the conversation so that it was about her. She skipped over the part about Connor being sick and went straight to what she wanted, ignoring everything else.

Ten Years Later

James and Connor were sitting across from Dr. Vartan in her office. The air separating them felt stifling. Heat filled the room that was previously cool, chilly even. She leaned forward with her hands clasped atop her desk and looked directly into Connor’s eyes. She gave the answer he expected and didn’t back down when he challenged her.

“How much time do I have left?” He’d asked it once before, ten years ago, in a different room.

Ultimately, Dr. Vartan did answer the question. The appointment was in mid-October. She explained that, given his current condition, she would be surprised if he lived through to spring. Winter was all he had left to finish what mattered. His health had been poor for some time, but he would do his best to use these last months wisely.

With winter approaching, it also meant that the holidays would soon arrive. This year, the holidays would hold something special for Connor. He knew this was his last and that brought on feelings of sadness. A last Christmas with James and his friends. A last toast to New Year’s with a flute of champagne. One last snowman to build after a snowstorm.

That Christmas his friends gathered, and they shared a final meal. The atmosphere was somber. Emotions were restrained, almost as if dancing on eggshells. Around the table, they prayed and said what they were thankful for. When it came to his turn, Connor paused and cleared his throat. “I am thankful for your friendship. I am thankful to be included even when times got worse for me. And most importantly, I am thankful for having known you.” That’s what he said to his friends. He said it with tears in his eyes as he looked around the table. James placed his hand on his shoulder and gave him a nod. He knew this nod; it meant that James was there to support him. And in that moment, that mattered more than it had at any time before.

In mid-March, the hospital admitted Connor. He had long ago reconciled his feelings about death. He had completed his plan for what happens after. James had agreed to do the eulogy at his memorial service. His lawyer had the paperwork in order for his will and final settlement. The doctors knew when to stop treatment. Everything was in order except for one thing.

He lay alone in his hospital room. The staff had dimmed the overhead lights for the evening. They drew the curtains to ensure a modest level of privacy. His IV line and other connected equipment restricted his arm. He reached for his cell phone on the nearby stand and cradled it in his hands. He looked at the screen, knowing who he needed to call. He called his mother.

His voice was gravelly. Speech was difficult. The words came, but many struggled to understand what he was saying. The nurses had left a notepad to help him communicate better with the staff. This call would be difficult, but he knew he needed to make it.

“Hello, Mom,” he said, although the words sounded garbled.

“Who’s this?” she asked, as if the change in voice belonged to someone she wasn’t familiar with.

“It’s me, Mom.” Again, speaking almost inaudibly.

“Hi, son. I can barely make out what you’re saying. It sounds like you have a box of rocks in your mouth.”

“I’m calling to let you know that I’m in the hospital.”

“Hospital. What are you doing there?”

Connor said the last word laboriously, adding extra syllables beyond what the word required: “I was admitted because of complications…”

“Oh, honey, I can barely hear you. Let’s talk another time when you can speak clearly.” She hung up.

Connor continued to look at the screen with the ended call. It hadn’t gone over well. It had gone how every call with Mom goes. He knew that, but now he was tired; too tired to remain awake. He turned his head sideways and looked at his monitors. The rhythmic beat cycled with an echo of a beep. The white lines moved up and down, an endless zigzag. He took one last look at the calendar on the wall behind the equipment and noticed that the first day of spring was tomorrow.

He smiled as he fell asleep. Dr. Vartan had told him that this was nearly impossible. But here he was at the doorway, with only a small step remaining. Spring would be here tomorrow. He let sleep take him.

The nurses would check on Connor as he slept. They would log his vitals and distribute pain medication as per the doctor’s orders.

Later that morning, around 5:00 a.m., an alarm sounded in Connor’s room. The staff knew his condition. They rushed to his bedside. On the first day of spring, Connor had passed.