By Emmanuelle (Emmy) Issa’25

“On a scale from 0 to 10 with 0 being no pain

and 10 being the worst pain you’ve ever felt,

what would you rate your pain right now?”

A stream of frustration accompanied an angry command to leave.

“I would hate me too if I were you, more than you would believe.

I’m also not a morning person, but I just want to learn

how you fared overnight and whether your pain has returned.”

I had been warned against taking this patient,

the scarlet violent encounter banner detailing how audacious

his responses had been to many on his healthcare team,

yet something drew me to him, no matter how mean.

It was cancer of the lung at its worst stage,

he had been suddenly diagnosed at only 53 years of age.

If anyone had a reason to curse at the sky,

it was this patient, with no doubt why.

The next morning, the same question I did ask,

it became my way of slowly withdrawing his gruff mask.

This question turned into a daily occurrence,

he learned to expect its repeated recurrence.

On the rare days of “2,” a boisterous greeting I would receive,

“Good morning sweetheart, how are you doing?” and then he would preach words of wisdom concerning life,

how to take full advantage of it and even embrace the strife.

On the days of “4,” go-karts were the conversation topic,

he shared story after story about his favorite hobby.

He promised me one day, he would see me on that go-kart track,

he wanted to share the joy of careening by without looking back.

On the days of “6,” he spoke of his daughter taken away by her mother,

how I reminded him of her, while his voice adopted the tone of a saddened father.

On the days of “8,” he spoke of his sister,

how she had called the night prior and “tortured him” with her concern.

On the days of “10,” he could hardly speak,

My heart would drop as I observed how weak

and frail he looked, his pure agony,The best I could do was tuck him tightly in his sheets.

Then came the day when he was stable enough to leave,

his pain had been mostly controlled by palliative schemes.

With a heavy heart but a brave smile,

I encouraged his recovery and said my goodbyes.

One month later, I sat staring at the computer in horror,

the gray banner of “deceased” filled my chest with caustic sorrow.

My breath was snatched away,

much like his had been on his last day.

My heart ached and my chest felt unbearably tight,

continuing work as if nothing had happened did not feel right.

Did he have a chance to see his sister,

tease her about how he deemed her a nagger?

Did he have a chance to see his daughter,

tell her how much he loved and needed her, more than life necessitated water?

Did he have a chance to experience go-karting one last time,

feel the wind in his beard and be transported back to the years of his prime?

I wondered as my mind reeled through the stories he told in our shared weeks,

I prayed he had as tears tumbled down my cheeks.

I did not have a chance to meet him on that go-kart track,

to see him for once pain-free but still giving me flack.

With a mischievous spark in his eye and that wide partly toothless grin,

he would have introduced me to his daughter, who he had deemed my twin.

“On a scale from 0 to 10 with 0 being no pain

and 10 being the worst pain you’ve ever felt,

what would you rate your pain right now?”

“10” was my whispered and choked response,

the finality striking me without strength to put up any defense.

There are times I imagine him now in a place

where he can live out his dreams of an endless go-kart race,

where his daughter would always be by his side,

his love, his life, his joy, his pride.

“On a scale from 0 to 10 with 0 being no pain

and 10 being the worst pain you’ve ever felt,

what would you rate your pain right now?”

“0,” he would immediately and confidently say,

with a spark in his eye and that wide partly toothless grin on his weathered face.