{"id":158722,"date":"2023-09-13T14:01:47","date_gmt":"2023-09-13T12:01:47","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.erasmusmagazine.nl\/en\/?p=158722"},"modified":"2025-12-19T11:26:58","modified_gmt":"2025-12-19T10:26:58","slug":"first-time-alone","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.erasmusmagazine.nl\/en\/2023\/09\/13\/first-time-alone\/","title":{"rendered":"First time alone"},"content":{"rendered":"

It’s a peculiar period, the time that unfolds between making a diagnosis and delivering the news to the patient. It all begins with the discovery of a massive tumour, pressing relentlessly on one hemisphere of the brain.<\/p>\n

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\n\t\n\n<\/svg>\n<\/span>\n\tImage by:<\/span>\n\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tLevien Willemse<\/a>, \t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tPauline Wiersema<\/a>\t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t<\/p>\n<\/figcaption><\/figure>

I estimate the tumour to be nothing short of a death sentence. The moment I drop the diagnosis like an unavoidable bombshell, time becomes finite and limited \u2013\u00a0limited for the patient and, by extension, for me. At least for the next half-hour, I reckon. But I haven\u2019t uttered those words yet, so I find myself suspended in this transformation, teetering between the finite and the infinite, within the realm of a delicate, fluid time.<\/p>\n

I discuss the scan findings with my supervisor and the neurologist. Given the busy schedule, they ask if I can manage the conversation with the patient on my own. I\u2019ve done it a few times before, but always under supervision. This would be my first time alone. However, it wouldn\u2019t be my first time doing something alone for the first time.<\/p>\n

I walk to the patient\u2019s room, deep in thought. The void of this moment involuntarily fills with vague memories of my own first times.<\/p>\n

The first time I flew the proverbial coop and left my parents\u2019 house. The first time I heard from my sister how much my mother cried on that day. The nostalgic scent of my old, weathered leather sofa \u2013 the first time I called my mother because I felt lonely in my student room.<\/p>\n

My first piano recital, the first time I broke something. The first time I met my in-laws, the first time I sampled a snail. The first suture, the first caesarean section. The first kiss, first sting of nettles, the first solo cycling trip, the first night of heavy drinking My first column about my first gravely ill patient.<\/p>\n

So many first times.<\/p>\n

We\u2019ve directed the patient to a spacious, sunlit room, isolated from the world outside. Lost in my reflections within this cocoon of time, I am startled when I step into the patient\u2019s room. His face, in this brilliantly lit space, is just a sombre and indistinct silhouette.<\/p>\n

His wife tenderly holds his hand as he\u2019s lying there, with a sheet pulled up to his navel. I settle in beside him and deliver the news without preamble. \u201cI have some difficult news. We\u2019ve identified a tumour on your scan.\u201d<\/p>\n

I give them a moment to absorb the news. Tears follow, along with the customary barrage of questions.<\/p>\n

The bomb has been dropped, the cocoon has shattered, yet even after the conversation time remains strangely unsteady. The usual tight schedules at A&E seem irrelevant for a moment \u2013\u00a0my next patient can certainly wait a little while. As I leave, I linger just outside the door, gazing through the window. The patient, too, remains motionless. The nursing staff will need to collect him. For now, he lies still in his bed, with his devoted wife by his side.<\/p>\n

In this pause, I realise that the patient\u2019s experience of this period must have already begun when the scan was taken or, God forbid, when his symptoms first appeared. I recognise that I was too preoccupied with my own feelings. Thankfully, I managed to regain my composure in time.<\/p>\n

I come to understand that, just like me, the patient too must have heard the news of his cancer diagnosis for the very first time. Thankfully, he wasn\u2019t alone.<\/p>\n\n\t

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