Teri Lynn Wilkins

A letter to my doctors,
And the nurses, technicians, researchers, admins, janitorial staff, EVERYONE that does a job to help care for people who are sick and wounded. Not just a thank you. An I see you.

I’m grateful every day that there are any of you left to care for me. I see your numbers dwindling. Your stress sky rocketing. I see you questioning your career choice and I see your spirits crashing. I see you.

I see the unfair blame. People angry with the lack of healthcare or the the cost who you, Instead of those who profit. People waiting so long who blame you (and immigrants) instead of those who buy hospitals, fleece the money and close them. People who are making poor decisions about vaccinations or buying snake oil from charlatans rather than believing you. People who don’t know how to read the studies or interpret the science questioning your knowledge. People who acted like rebellious toddlers and refused to wear a mask while putting you, your families and the capacity of the healthcare system at risk.

I see the stockholders pushing you to do more and more with less and less, and putting profit over patients while you bare the brunt. And now I see the government slashing research money and your hopes for cures. Slashing budgets for things that keep people healthy. Crushing the very reason you became a doctor, to heal and cure people. I see you. Still working. Still trying. Still helping. Despite the challenges, the strain and the blame.

Thank you. You haven’t always listened to me. (I wouldn’t have stage IV had I been heard) But you are caring for me. Doing your best. Walking with me through the worst thing. And of course you’ve made mistakes. You’re all human and the body is a complex and highly unknown thing. Redundancies don’t always work despite our best efforts. The trauma is still very real from the time I bleed into my chest for 9 hours. S**t happens. You did eventually save me. And you definitely saved me the week before that. Do we count the, both or just the one? Lol.

Continued…….

A year ago. Two weeks post surgery. Sitting on the beach, full of gratitude to have finally taken my sons on an actual vacation. And… full of despair that it was likely the first and the last. Each moment of joy (whales, turtles, sunsets, waves, quietly watching them throw the football in the pool) followed with deep grief that I would never see ‘this’ again and endless tears I kept choking back. The trip was amazing and….crushing. Fun and…heavy. Soul filling and…heart breaking.

I didn’t know I would be here a year later. And I don’t know I will be here a year from now. My entire life has changed and yet life goes on as if nothing has. It’s as if I’m suspended in a state of permanent indecision and confusion. With an ‘average’ time frame of 18 to 24 months with some people way less and some years…. knowing what to do, how to spend your time, your money…..it’s impossible to know what to do or even….. how to feel.

But I’m here. And I’m glad to have these memories. However difficult they are. I’m grateful it’s been a year and I’m terrified it’s already been a year. If I knew my time frame, decisions would be easier. I wouldn’t be plagued with worries of regrets. Hell, if I were rich that would make all the decisions easy. I would move to Los Cabos and spend whatever time I have left…watching the ocean and feeling the warmth of the sun on my bones. But not even a terminal diagnosis affords anyone that luxury. You gotta keep working not just to pay the bills but to keep your insurance.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for my job. Grateful for my insurance and the fact that it’s good. I’m grateful for the people I work with and the support they give me every day. But, I do wish I was back there. At the beach. With my sons. Where there is no pressure to slow time, and no fear of losing time, just the three of us spending time. Maybe I would cry less a year later. Probably not. But, I would still be damn glad. And I’m still damn glad we got to go in the first place. It’s been a year. It feels heavy. But I look at these pictures and they make me happy. We went. And memories are forever.

Act.

Act.

May the good Lord be with you down every road you roam.
And may sunshine and happiness surround you when you’re far from home.
You’ve grown to be proud, dignified and true.
So do unto others as you’d have done to you.

Be courageous and be brave,
And in my heart you’ll always stay,
Forever young (forever young)
Forever young (forever young)

May good fortune be with you, may your guiding light be strong.
Build a stairway to heaven with a princess or a vagabond.

And may you never love in vain,
And in my heart you will remain,
Forever young (forever young)
Forever young (forever young)
Forever young
Forever young

And when I finally fly away, I’ll be hoping that I served you well.
For all the wisdom of a lifetime, no one can ever tell.
But whatever road you choose, I’m right behind you win or lose….

Forever young (forever young)
Forever young (forever young)
Forever young
Forever young
For-, forever young
Forever young