In memory of Myerna

As physicians, our days are filled with complaints. From the moment we walk into the clinic until the last chart is closed, we are immersed in a world of pain, confusion, fatigue and loss. Every day, every week, every month—we see it all. And people often assume we’ve become immune to it. They think we don’t feel. But the truth is, we do.We feel more than we admit. Our patients’ stories follow us home—not in charts or files, but in silence, tucked behind the invisible barrier we build to survive this work and stay composed and professional. We learn to carry them quietly, to hold our composure and keep a steady voice even when something inside us is shaking. With time, we get better at hiding. But not always.Sometimes, that barrier thins—a word, a silence, a goodbye—and something breaks through.We are not supposed to form attachments, yet some patients touch us in ways we never quite understand until they’re gone. It has little to do with the medical condition and everything to do with how they treat us—with kindness, with grace, with respect. When they look at us not just as doctors, but as people. When they show the same care to the front desk staff, the nurses, the cleaning team—showing that we all matter equally.Read: Dr. Jabir Jassam: One license, one countryMyerna was one of those people.In her late seventies, Myerna was diagnosed with lung cancer that eventually metastasized to her brain. She endured 18 months of treatment with quiet strength and dignity. But when the disease advanced, she was told what no patient ever wants to hear—there is no hope, no more treatment, no more options.She then made her decision: to stop all medications, became palliative, and applied for MAiD. She chose her path with clarity, with grace and with a calmness that spoke volumes. She was ready to go.Two days before the scheduled date, she contacted my office. She wanted to speak with me. I knew this would be a difficult call—perhaps harder for me than for her. She was at peace. But I wasn’t.I pushed the call to the end of the day. I didn’t want it to affect how I cared for others that day. But even when the clinic was quiet and the lights were dimmed, it took everything in me to dial her number.We spoke for ten minutes. And during that entire time, she didn’t talk about her illness. She didn’t complain. Instead, she talked about us—our team, our clinic, how we responded to every concern she ever had. And then she said something I’ll never forget:“You were the best thing that happened to me in this life. I just wanted to say goodbye.”I didn’t cry; I thought I could respond with strength. I thought I could find the right words. But the language betrayed me. My sentences felt hollow. I reached for my usual phrases, for something comforting, something profound—but nothing felt enough. I wanted her to feel that someone, even silently, was grieving with her.She didn’t need me to say it; she could tell. She felt it—the presence, the grief, the unspoken weight I carried with her.And I knew . . . that was the last time she would ever speak to me.When the call ended, I sat in the silence. The line was dead, but the heaviness stayed—a dull ache pressing into my chest, refusing to leave.I promised her I would write something for her. And here I am.Myerna, this is for you. I hope this piece finds its way into the memory of who you were—your kindness, your strength, your pure heart. You are now in the best hands, and I am certain God will reward you for your grace and kindness you gave us and the world.I will miss you.Dr. Jabir Jassam is a family physician in Ottawa.

In memory of Myerna

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