Test Time

My mother, a two-time cancer survivor, had a routine appointment with her urologist last week. He did a routine test and indicated there was blood in the urine. That was about all he said. A few minutes later the nurse came into the examination room and handed my mother a lab form and said to her, "You need to go have an ultrasound done. It's for cancer." She then turned and walked out of the room.

The doctor had said nothing about cancer. In fact, he didn't make it seem like a big deal at all. And the nurse's matter-of-fact attitude really shocked my mother. My mom is not the shy type. She's in her 70s, very active, has a great personality and sense of humor. She is a very outgoing person and is quick to share her opinion. But this left her without comment.

My first instinct when hearing this account was to call the doctor and yank a knot in his backside. "What kind of doctor are you?" I could hear myself asking. "And if your staff has no more compassion than this nurse displayed, then you need to start over," I was ready to tell him. The fact is, though, that the news left me without comment, too.

I'm a grown man. I've been grown a long time. But this is my Mom we're talking about. More appropriately in times like this, this is my Mama we're talking about. Even in a time when so many cancers are curable, or at least treatable, the very word conjures up the darkest images.

The day after I heard about this incident--my mother still does not have the results from the ultrasound--I was still worried about her and thinking about the possibility of another cancer diagnosis. How would she handle that? How would my dad? How would I, for that matter?

As these thoughts were bouncing around in the back of my mind, I had a conversation with my friend Dr. Moses Sincala. He's CMMB's country director in Zambia. It's always a pleasure to visit with him. Dr. Moses is smart and funny, and just an all-around good guy. In this particular conversation, Dr. Moses indicated that there is a shifting concern in healthcare in Africa. He said that new incidents of cervical cancer are shocking everyone. There are more new diagnoses than ever before. Cancer, it seems, is an increasingly major concern in Zambia, Kenya, and other African nations.

We went on to talk about other things, most of them unrelated to healthcare. But I couldn't help but think about my mother and her careless nurse. Somehow I started to be rather hopeful about my mom's situation. Even if her doctor does not communicate well, and even if the nurse seems cold as a slab of marble in February, at least my mother is receiving medical care. She has insurance. And if one doctor doesn't meet her expectations, she can always change to another doctor. These are all advantages we have in the United States.

Suppose my mother lived in Zambia or Kenya or South Africa or Haiti. What if she had to walk all day just to get to a clinic, only to find when she arrived that there were no doctors who could diagnose her...much less treat her. What options would she have?

Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful that my mom is being cared for. I'm very hopeful for a report from the doctor saying everything is okay, maybe she needs just a few days of an antibiotic. And, even if the news is bad, I'm hopeful for things like early detection and various treatment options. But I'm also sad for all of the other mothers in all of countries around the world who don't have such options. The disparity seems to be so vast.

But I also find hope because there are a lot of people working every single day to decrease the disparity in healthcare around the world. People like Dr. Moses in Zambia, Dr. Salvador in CMMB's Kenya office, and Dr. Dianne serving the people of Haiti. There are doctors and nurses from all over the United States and Canada who come to CMMB and say, "I want to volunteer. I want to make a difference." And they do.

These folks leave the comfort of their homes, the prestige of their practices, their friends and loved ones and go to work with some of the most in-need people in the world. They do things like diagnose cancer and provide effective remedies for childhood illnesses that would be otherwise death sentences. When I think about the people who volunteer for CMMB or any healthcare organization, I start to think about how the concerns of another son for another mother somewhere else in the world. Maybe because some people care enough to really give of themselves, the concerns of that son can be alleviated because he knows that his mom will be okay.

I'm praying for my mom today. And I'm praying for the moms I'll never meet. Because they are worthy of my prayers and the sacrifice of healthcare professionals who are traveling even today to see them in a rural clinic in some remote corner of the world. I have hope for my mom. And hope for the other moms, too.