Recently, a patient of mine died of cancer, whom I loved very much. She had a special way of enjoying life; a half, wise smile that after our many years together did not take me too seriously and reflected her deep inner strength. She taught me about joy; I will miss her always. Her husband, understanding my loss, said that it was alright, that I had done my best, that he would pray for me. He empathized more with my pain, my loss, than with his own.
This same morning, I learned of the slaughter at the Pulse. I was mourning the death of one person of a terrible, but natural disease, while at a night club, a place to celebrate life, friends and lovers in the middle of dance, were cut down. No illness, no fault, no natural process, just slaughter. My grief is barren, tiny, pathetic, in the dark light of that terror and loss.
I am devastated. With my hands, my mind and soul, I have dedicated my life to fighting the rotting, disgusting malady we call cancer. One patient, one battle. Win some. Lose an awful lot. But, always the purest fight, reaching for one more day or month or year of happiness and life. Build hope. Build families. Build a community. Small steps forward.
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