The Real Power of a Magic Wand

(Hats, crowns, wings and sparkles are optional:)

When Ava came to the hematology clinic, I assumed she was seeking a second opinion. Her medical records showed she’d recently been diagnosed with a blood cancer called multiple myeloma. At the time, it was considered incurable. 

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I knock on the exam door and begin to introduce myself. Ava is sitting on the chair positioned next to the desk with a computer. Her feet barely skim the floor. Had she been in a more jovial mood, it would have been easy to mistake her for a child, feet swinging back and forth with anticipation. Instead, she is staring at the floor and does not even look up when I extend my hand in greeting. 

"How are you doing today?" I continue, redirecting my arm forward and down, hoping to gracefully reach for the round stool on wheels sitting below the desk. I smile as I roll my stool to face her, trying to find a way to connect.

"Fine." Her voice is monotone. 

Ava suddenly stands up from her chair and moves toward the exam table. Her gaze remains transfixed on the floor.

"What brings you here today?" I ask somewhat awkwardly as I try to glide my stool toward her.

"Cancer."

She has barely gotten on the exam table before she stands back up. This time she remains in place.

"Are you in pain?" I ask.

"No."

"Can you tell me what you know about your diagnosis?”

"It's not good."

Switching gears to find another way to engage, I ask Ava, "What do you do for work?"

"I'm a flautist."

"Where do you play?"

"The orchestra pit."

And so on. No matter what I ask, Ava makes no eye contact and offers no response longer than three words. 

I am stumped. How on earth am I possibly going to make a difference for her if I haven't a clue what matters to her?

Completely exasperated, a question forms and escapes my mouth before I even realize what I am asking.