Before the words, my hands grow cold,
The weight of truth, so hard to hold.
A heart, unsure, but trained to speak,
A voice that trembles, yet must be weak.

What will they hear? What will they feel?
How will I make their sorrow real?
The room is heavy, filled with air,
A silence thick with silent prayer.

Good news, I hope, a brighter day—
Or words of loss, too hard to say.
I stand between them, truth in hand,
A bridge between the earth and sand.

My mind is racing, yet I know,
I must be kind, and let it flow.
The message clear, but hearts may break,
For healing’s journey, we must take .

Doctor doctor, I don’t feel well, I have this pain and it just won’t go away.

Well well Dawn, we must take some bloods and see what is wrong.

Okay doctor, please organise the tests. I will see you in a few days.

Dawn, I’m afraid I have some bad news. This isn’t simple and light, please take a deep breath and when you’re ready I will tell you.

I am ready doctor, please tell me, I have my partner here and we can handle anything together.

Well Dawn, you have cancer. It has progressed throughout your body, it cannot be fixed.

You have less than 6 months to live.

You can stay at home but please if the pain gets too bad you need to come go to the hospital.

Tears shed down her face, as she looks at the doctor, she says:

Thank you, how did this happen?

Why was it missed?

Negligence Dawn, those doctor’s visits you had, they never thoroughly checked.

I am sorry to deliver this news, please make the most of the time you have left.

5 months later, Dawn passed on, she was comfortable and at peace in the hospital.

She had said her goodbyes and declarations of love, she passed peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by love and no more hate.

Fly free Dawny the Tawny eagle, in memory of Dawn, taken too soon by cancer.

Cancer really does suck.

Delivering the bad news… What can you really do? Should I say “I’m sorry”? Should I say “I tried”?

Everything happens for a reason. But what could it be this time? Did this person deserve it? No. No one deserves this.…

The halls feel empty and dark. The only thing that made a noise was the clock. Maybe I could turn back time. Perhaps I could’ve been something else….

Nope. This is my career and I must be brave. I feel the urge to run away but my feet keep moving forward. I try to think of what to say but my mind is blank.

I’m not the one who has the bad news. Yet I feel nervous and my hands are sweaty. Sweat moves down my palms to my fingers like a broken faucet….

I reach the couple and start to speak but I’m like a broken record, my words on repeat… I take a deep breath and go again. This time, I say the words…”I’m sorry….”

I knew what God was capable of before the doctor arrived. I never doubted that He would see me through. My faith in Him remains unwavering, even in uncertain times. Trusting in God always provides us with the strength we need, which comes from above. Prayer, repentance, and facing reality should always be priorities before undergoing any surgery. But it was taken too long and that’s what was worrying me.

Today is the day of my surgery for emergency eye surgery to repair my retina, which the doctor said was very complex. Despite feeling worried and anxious, reassurance and prayer guided the doctor's hands throughout the surgery. While waiting in the facility, a sense of fear crept in when the doctor asked if I had signed a living will. However, the presence of God reassured me that everything would be okay. As I sat in the waiting room, surrounded by the sound of a family feud, I remained patient and focused on the restricted access doors ahead of me.

The phrase "restricted access" has caught my attention, and I believe God has inspired me to focus on this for a specific purpose. I am not sure if it will be a sermon or a teaching, but these words will stay with me.

Once again, the doctor informed me that the upcoming surgery would be intricate. As I waited to undergo the procedure, I found myself contemplating the unknown and reflecting on my own thoughts. The doctor inquired about my living will, emphasizing the potential risks associated with the surgery such as complications with anesthesia and breathing. I had ample time to consider these factors during the three-hour wait prior to the surgery. While my faith remained steadfast, I acknowledged that I am still working towards strengthening it. After signing necessary documents, I was taken to a room where the IV was inserted into my arm after multiple attempts to locate a suitable vein. Eventually, I was transferred to the operating table.

The physician is currently in the adjacent clinic, which explains the delay in their arrival at this juncture. Meanwhile, I am engaging in introspection and offering prayers. While lying on the operating table for an extended period of time, the anesthesiologist eventually administered the intravenous drip. Despite feeling slightly more at ease, I remained alert to the sounds emanating from the ongoing surgery. Surrounded by a plethora of medical technology, doctors, and nurses who have undergone extensive training and performed numerous surgeries, my anxiety was significantly alleviated.

The doctor, who was a professional, entered the room whistling. It was comforting to know that everyone else was okay, but as a pastor, I still felt the need to make sure my relationship with God was in good standing. The surgery ran a bit longer than anticipated, but I decided I would reflect on the experience later.

God has the power to turn what seems bad into something good through automation. We must trust in Him, as all things work together for our benefit. Today was a victorious day, albeit with some discomfort. The sign on the door stating "restricted access" reminded me that we can only enter through divine calling and must be prepared to go through the necessary procedures and questioning to reach our ultimate destination.

Indeed, upon reaching the threshold of that door, access is unrestricted from the opposite side, as one must enter to repent. This is because God allows for repentance and offers limitless access to his kingdom through prayer, ensuring that one may have faith in improvement following any hardships endured.

Please You already Know the Answer

Three months Not that long Your family in the room I’m sorry

His heart sinks As he falls down Into a depression So much to live for

And so less time Live to the fullest While you still Have time

As I walk through the hospital to the little boy’s room, I wonder if he will like me after this. Of course, it is not my fault, but sometimes six-year-olds don’t think this way.

I try to maintain my composure as I walk into the room. His mother sits nervously in the chair by the bed. Recently, while eating out, the boy felt sick, collapsed, and was brought to the hospital. He is better, but he is about to receive life changing news.

“Well?” Asks the mother, nervously but curiously.

I take a deep breath and turn to adress the boy.

“After much reaserch and tests, we have deemed that you are deathly allergic to kale.”

“YAY! I HATE kale!”

They sit there, hands clench around each others As if they are the others lifeboat, keeping them from drowning in their feelings.

Straighten the spine Deep breath Shoulder back Walk.

They notice me out of the corner of their eyes Before I say anything. The rush me, asking questions Wanting to make me their lifeboat.

I can’t be their lifeboat, though. It’s not good, I’m sorry. They crumple back into their chairs The procedure was going well Then complications that no one saw coming, arose. I’m sorry, for your loss. They lean on each other for comfort, But also out of necessity as well.

Their lifeboat got a leak, and there is no was to plug it.

Nothing can compare, To the view of a families despair. Telling them bad news, Is nothing you get used to.

This part of the job, Your emotions it will rob. Keeping a straight face and being neutral, Whilst delivering news that’s far too brutal.

Being this professional, Can sometimes seem questionable. People asking why, As they try not to cry.

You think your used to death, But every time you tell bad news you have to draw a deep breath. The fear of facing a family and telling bad news, Is a feeling you never loose.

No matter if you’re a doctor or nurse, Telling bad news is like a curse. Doesn’t matter if you’re young or old, You know the damage it does once it’s told.

Telling a mother her baby is dead, Keeps you awake when you lie in bed. Telling a child their parent has died, You’ll wish you hadn’t and just lied.

Telling bad news, Is something you never get used to. I’ve got to tell a family bad news now, But I’m not sure how.

In the realm of healing's sacred art, A doctor stands, with heavy heart. A task awaits, a burden to bear, To deliver news, a weight to share.

Before the moment, stress takes hold, A mix of emotions, stories untold. The weight of responsibility, immense, To bring solace, to offer defense.

With trembling hands and furrowed brow, The doctor ponders, wonders how, To comfort the patient, ease their pain, To soften the blow, like gentle rain.

A deep empathy, a wellspring of care, Flows through the doctor, beyond compare. For within them, a sorrow resides, That fate has dealt this painful stride.

The doctor knows the power of words, How they can heal, or be used like swords. With utmost care, they chose each phrase, To soften the blow, to offer solace.

They enter the room, a calming presence, A beacon of hope, a guiding essence. With gentle touch and compassionate eyes, They offer comfort, as the patient cries.

"I'm so sorry," the doctor begins to say, A heavy weight, they cannot sway. Their voice trembles, filled with regret, For the pain that the patient must now beget.

But in their sorrow, a strength emerges, To be a pillar, as the patient surges. To offer support, a listening ear, To hold their hand, to wipe each tear.

For in this moment, the doctor knows, That healing begins, where empathy flows. To be there, fully present, in their plight, To offer comfort, to bring some light.

And though the news may be hard to bear, The doctor's compassion, shows they care. For they took an oath, a vow was made, To walk beside their patients, in any phase.

So, to the doctor, with bad news to communicate May your passion for your work never begins fade.
In delivering news, both good and bad, May your presence bring comfort, as a patient breathes their last.

My favorite patient is dying, But how do I tell her that? How do I tell her she has six months? Why do I have to be the bearer of bad news? I know I’ve done this a thousand times, But I can’t bring myself to do it right now.

“Can I take a minute?” I ask my supervisor He sees my troubled expression on my face He puts a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug. Before he can answer, I go into the restroom As soon as I hit the door, the tears fall And I start crying uncontrollably.