The Reminder
Panacea Writing Contest: 1st Place Winner
The following piece, written by Emily Schwartz, was selected for 1st place in the 2nd Panacea Writing Contest.
“Emily, you’re going home.”
I am standing in the center of my still unfamiliar dorm room, my tear-filled eyes fixated down onto the multitoned gray specks that make up the dull carpet coating my floor. My phone held to my ear, I remain still and reply.
“No, I’m so scared. I cannot face this.”
My trembling voice is met with the calm of hers. “I know you are scared. I also know you will go. Let me reflect onto you what you have shown me to be true. It is hard to see now, but your heart is already there.”
I had been living in Amsterdam for one month, having left my family in Massachusetts to begin my PhD in pediatric oncology. Earlier this evening, my mother called to inform me that my father was imminently passing away from stage IV cancer. He and I exchanged our final words that night.
I could not bear the thought of returning home and walking into my father’s infamous office – walls coated with bookshelves containing medical textbooks, teaching awards, classic literature, and baby pictures of his four children – to see his desk chair now empty. I could not bear the thought of seeing my mother standing alone, with only the shadow of what should be beside her. I was terrified to face what I desperately did not want to be true.
And so, I clung to the reprieve of disbelief when my PhD mentor called me nearly five minutes after hearing my father’s voice for the last time in my life. She saw my fear for what it was – a veil blinding me from the heartbreak within – and safely delivered me back to myself. She did so not by pointing the needle of my compass for me, but by reminding me that it has always been in my keeping. I had everything that I needed to navigate myself. From this point forward, that reminder has guided me through the most imperative decisions that I have made in my life. My grief was made sacred by my pride in my father’s legacy. My purpose was deepened when I discovered the privilege of pediatric critical care as a medical student. And most importantly, my life’s meaning was realized when I met my person.
Years passed, and my fiancée and I are visiting my mentor and her husband in their hometown in the Netherlands. Her husband had been recently diagnosed with a fatal neurodegenerative disease only weeks prior. As they walk hand in hand, she supports his every step while their young children run ahead and play. I look upon their family while holding my fiancée’s arm, and feel the warmth of gratitude for all my mentor has brought my life. To find someone who grounds you within yourself is a cherished gift in a world that constantly tells us what we should be instead. As their family now faces the inevitable, it is an honor to bear witness to her example.
She is going home.
About the Author: Emily Risa Schwartz is a third-year medical student at Harvard Medical School, who will be returning to her PhD in pediatric oncology at Vrije Universiteit in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. She completed her Bachelor of Science in immunology and Bachelor of Arts in medical anthropology from Brown University and her Master of Bioethics from Harvard Medical School. Her academic interests are neonatal critical care and anesthesia, pediatric palliative care, and narrative ethics.