Published 17 June 2025

On Sunday, my patient died.

About a year ago, she was referred to me with a lump in her right axilla. It turned out to be metastatic spread from a previously excised skin cancer on her thumb. She was sent to the nearest oncology unit and received radiotherapy.

In the beginning, she and her devoted husband would come to the clinic together, sharing with me the ups and downs of their hospital visits. There was always hope — hope that the cancer could be cured.

But as her condition gradually worsened, I began seeing them at home. They lived in a modest flat with their adopted son, who works at the local fruit and vegetable store I often visit. Sometimes, he’d speak to me there — sharing quiet concern for his mother’s health.

Her husband continued visiting the clinic regularly, making sure she had pain medication and dressings for the ulcer under her arm.

Eventually, the burden became too great to carry alone, and she was admitted to the frail care centre at a nearby old age home. I continued visiting her there. Her husband, still holding out hope, spoke of her upcoming oncology appointment as if it might still change everything.

But when she became fully bedridden, something shifted. He began to understand that the end was near.

On the day she died, he asked gently if we couldn’t put up a drip — she was unresponsive by then. A few hours later, she passed away with her family gathered around her bed.

I visited him one last time in their flat — now quiet, holding the weight of absence.

He sat with their son, mourning the end of a 57-year marriage.

How do I grieve this?

I’m left with gratitude — for the depth of the relationship we shared over the past year. It was a meaningful journey, one marked not just by illness, but by courage, connection, and care.

A colleague recently offered a phrase that feels true here:

This is not compassion fatigue. This is compassion satisfaction.