Izzy & Noah ✔️

Eight: Alone in the Crowd

I always thought palliative care was something terrifying—something I never wanted to witness up close.

And yet, life has a way of pulling you into the very things you fear the most. Ironically, I had never truly encountered it, nor did we ever really talk about it during my studies. It was a distant concept, a shadow at the edges of medical discussions—until it wasn't.

I've always been captivated by the way people leave this world. Not just those who go suddenly, in accidents, from heart failure, or by their own hand, but those who fade slowly, piece by piece, as illness steals them away. There's something devastating in that kind of goodbye.

In oncology, we often say that all patients are, in a way, palliative. Even when treatment works, even when the scans come back clear, there's always the unspoken fear that the cancer will return. And when it does, it's usually fiercer, crueler, sometimes reshaped into something new, a consequence of the very treatment that once saved them.

Palliative care is for those who have no more battles left to fight, no miracles left to hope for. Sometimes, we still give them chemotherapy—one last effort to buy them a little more time. A few days, maybe weeks. But the body knows. The body is already letting go.

And that's the hardest part. Because palliative care isn't just about easing pain or making someone comfortable—it's about watching someone slip away while pretending you're strong enough to handle it.

Sometimes, it feels unbearably heavy. Especially when I go through it with Suzy.

The second week on the palliative ward passed in a blur.

Time has flown since I started working.

During lunch, I sit in the break room with Anna, one of our registered nurses.

"What do you think?" she asks, her tone casual.

"Interesting, but this slow pace is killing me. I'm not used to things moving so slowly," I reply, my frustration bubbling to the surface.

I admit that I'm accustomed to rushing, to being on the go, a trait honed during my college days when we were trained to be fast and efficient, like uncut diamonds.

"I know what you're thinking—you'll get used to it too, just wait and see," Anna laughs, taking a bite of her sandwich.

Yes, our diet consists mainly of sandwiches and spreads, as the hospital lacks a proper cafeteria—strange, considering most other hospitals have one.

I reassure myself that in a few months, things will be easier.

"Maybe I imagined this whole experience differently," I muse aloud to Anna as I continue eating.

We fall into a comfortable silence until she gets up to return to work.

After a few minutes, I follow suit, clearing my things away and heading back to the ward.

It's time for my visit.

Suzy sends me to the infusion therapy room for each patient, where we keep all the medicines and infusions administered intravenously.

One trip is for antibiotics, another for saline.

By the time I make my third trip, I can feel my mood slipping.

I bump into Anna in the infusion room.

"Are you okay?" she asks, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Yeah, I'm just a bit lost. Suzy keeps sending me here for everything," I admit, glancing between the various drips.

"Second shelf on the left," Anna points out.

I blink in surprise. "How did you know I was looking for that?"