place every meet, but even then her life wasn’ t quite normal. She would be pulled from the pool for breathing treatments, not able to speak and gasping for air, but at 17, asthma never stopped her from giving her all for the team.
The term " genius " can be thrown around lightly, but that’ s what she was, a genius – the smartest person in my AP physics class and one of the front-runners in our all-girl prep school for pre-med. She was still able to work through difficult material and ace the AP biology final, to write the elaborate AP English thesis, yet in all of her accomplishment she never was boastful or catty. She was a beautiful person. She was accepted to a liberal arts college and well on her way to becoming a physician when our pathways split.
There are times in your life that you are just stopped in your tracks and forced to thank God for every small blessing you’ ve ever had. The second I saw her post was one of those moments:
“ I need a ride to a doctor’ s appointment and my parents can’ t miss any more work and be able to keep their jobs.”
This message came across on March 6, 2013 right after I had matched into residency and my outlook on the world was starting to brighten.
Asking for help can be a humbling experience, but I can’ t imagine asking for help from thousands of your not-so-close friends via Facebook. So of course, I thought,“ Sure I’ ll go pick her up and take her to the doctor, it would be great to catch up and see how life is going and to see how she was doing – it was the absolute least I could do. After all, I knew her battle with this devastating illness from watching it unfold on Facebook from a distance. This“ good deed” seemed to fit well in my Lenten promise of trying to branch out and serve others outside of my medical responsibilities, but little did I know she was giving me so much more.
The moment I pulled up in her driveway and saw her fold her wheelchair and unhook from her TPN to get ready to make to daunting walk to my beat-up car in the alley, I was humbled- humbled in a way that made me feel lost in the world. To see this woman who had all the promise in the world to be a physician, the goal we both shared as young women in our AP science classes, stripped of her ability to care for others despite her selfless nature, dependent on others for basic life needs: it seemed so unjust and unfair. Nevertheless we packed up her things and loaded her wheelchair into my trunk, and started on our mission to the outpatient appointment. In this moment, I found the strength to continue when I felt like there was no oxygen to breathe, when the hours of work, surgery and stress seemed to suffocate me. In this moment I knew I couldn’ t give up and that strength came from a girl I hardly knew anymore, a condition I couldn’ t fathom living with, and from a survival struggle I hope to never have to understand. This was the first moment in at least four years I wasn’ t concerned about surviving through a general surgery internship because of this brave girl who’ s fighting another complication of sepsis from a UTI, indwelling central lines and ports due to her TPN.
As I’ m lifting her from my car to her wheelchair, you would have no idea this girl has a crippling disease and we’ re heading into a doctor’ s appointment. As I push her into the hospital, she just has this contagious laugh and smile on her face as we talk about our dogs and our upcoming 10-year high school reunion. But all I can feel is ashamed for being afraid of the unknown of this world when someone who did everything right went from a varsity athlete to a wheelchair, from a pre-medical student to a critically ill patient. In those few hours I spent with her, I felt that I was seeing a glimpse of humanity and God was showing me the beauty in others through a girl who had the worst hand dealt at the table.
After her appointment I offered to go get an ice cream and she responded,“ I can’ t eat unless it goes into a gastrostomy tube, and even now I am not tolerating much so I just live on my TPN.” I then offered to go swimming some time since the pool I go to has a chair lift, but then she reminded me that she couldn’ t get her tunnel line wet. To hear how badly she desired to swim again just brought me to tears: knowing how talented she was and feeling awful that I had even brought it up. After I dropped her back at her home and she thanked me for the commute, I returned to my car and all I did was cry. I mourned the loss of her dreams and aspirations and became angry with myself about the degree of self-pity I felt for my loss of a social life due to my medical training. When I have a day that I think I could walk out of the hospital and never go back, I remember what it looked like to push the wheelchair of a woman as beautiful as Em.
I believe one of the best gifts you can give someone is inspiration, and that’ s exactly what Em gave me. One thing social media offers us is a repository of moments and memories, good and bad. I’ ll forever be grateful that Em had an outlet like Facebook for so many reasons. She was able to let others be a part of her life and journey, she was able to ask for help to get rides to her doctor’ s appointments, and she was able to inspire and unite people she hadn’ t seen in years, or perhaps had never met. While Em may have lost her battle to her disease, she will leave a legacy of a fighter’ s spirit and hope behind, and we can all learn from her courage. And even in her last moments, Facebook was able to provide a community for the girls of her high school to come together, share their stories of Em and celebrate her life.
Dr. Edwards is a Urology PGY-4 Resident at the University of Louisville.
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