Every doctor has one death they remember. For me, it was you

You were only in your 40s when you came into hospital and I was asked to see you. You reminded me of my mother, only you were 10 years younger.

The cancer had spread throughout your body. Your husband had brought you into hospital because you hadn’t eaten or drunk for almost a week and had collapsed.

I took one look and knew you didn’t have long. Your husband said that a week ago you had been your usual self, walking, laughing, living, loving. He broke down in tears. He didn’t need me to tell him you weren’t going to leave hospital. He told me how grateful he was for the cancer treatment we’d given you, what wonderful care you had received. His wish was that you would stay alive long enough for your parents to see you one last time. They were away and you hadn’t told them you were unwell for fear of hurting them, so they’d only found out today. They were getting the first flight to come and see you one last time. To say goodbye.

Your husband was overcome by emotion, hoping, begging I’d say you’d make it long enough to see them. I should have managed his expectations, explained that we’d do everything we could, that you were very unwell, that your organs were failing, your body was failing. I should have found a way to say all this, sensitively, compassionately and professionally. Instead, my lip trembled. My voice broke. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. I had to leave you to compose myself. I walked to the bathroom and wept.

I came back five minutes later, and your husband apologised for upsetting me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his last wish for you would be taken away. Instead, I told him we’d try our best. I said I would get the consultant to see you, partly because I hoped he’d have an answer I didn’t have, partly because I knew I couldn’t tell your husband you had hours to live.

When the consultant told your husband that he had only hours left with you, and that he should call your loved ones to your side, your husband thanked us between sobs.

I came into your room a couple of hours later to see how you were. The lights were dim. You looked at peace. You had left us. Your sister was there, your son was there. Your husband was there. He thanked us for everything we had done in giving you the time you had together. Your parents never made it.

I hope you are resting in peace. I hope your husband is somehow coping with your loss.

Some details have been changed.

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Every doctor has one death they remember. For me, it was you