UCLA Journal of Radiation Oncology December First Edition - Flipbook - Page 25
UCLA RADIATION ONCOLOGY JOURNAL
Critical to my presentation is the cliché that “One cannot pour from an
empty cup.” I emphasize that this is applicable to all students in the room
no matter what path they choose, hoping to leave at least a crumb of
meaningful impression. This year a student in the back raised her hand
and asked, “But what’s in your cup?” An instant sweat appeared as I fished
for an answer other than an unhealthy volume of Red Bull Energy Drinks
and Diet Coke. To my surprise, I was able to summon a response sponsored
by my most trusted companion—my gut. “Today”, I said, “self-compassion,
patience, pride, boundaries…a Sugar Free Red Bull and Diet Coke. Yesterday,
guilt, cynicism, grief, lack of sleep…and two Red Bull—not sugar free.” After
some much needed validation of my Red Bull addiction, a beautiful dialogue
ensued that included my fellow presenters who expressed how much
they resonated with this concept and felt it warranted the rest of our time
together. How did we fill our cups? Were we cognizant of its contents or were
we simply operating on autopilot? How did the substances we chose or fell
prey to affect others? This quarter I attained the stampede.
Like most of us, I was blindsided by COVID both personally and
professionally. When I spoke to patients, now via the antithesis of social
work, Telehealth, our conversations were layered like my Sicilian Mimi’s
lasagna with even more anxiety, fear, helplessness, and sheer exhaustion
than usual. When I prompted patients with my new trusty intervention,
“What’s in your cup today?”, the initial answers were almost always,
“nothing,” “not sure,” or the occasional “family, maybe?” I’d explain my
belief that we all have SOMETHING in our cups, trying my damndest to
remain strengths-based and inspire some reflection even if the result was
acknowledgement of a cup filled with “negativity” – at least something to
work with. Many patients and families shared that COVID was the last straw.
Most had previously achieved some level of control over their cancer by
solidifying transportation, engaging in therapy or other supportive services,
spending time with loved ones, or taking a walk around their block or in
their local park. COVID had taken away the “knowns” that kept them from
losing hope, motivation, and momentum. What hit me the hardest was
when patients shared that they had lost “focus.” Patients were worried
about their families, friends, neighbors, and community. In many sessions,
cancer wasn’t mentioned once. They were drained—pouring all that was left
in their cup to others, to navigating changes to systems that were already
incredibly complex, to the collective grief and fear caused by this pandemic
and senseless acts towards BIPOC in this country. As we continued our work
together, a trend emerged. When prompted, patients began to share that
their medical team was what was filling their cup.
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