Kellie Kozel

2016 Creative Writing Awards Winner

Class of 2018

Kellie Kozel is in her first year at Yale School of Nursing, studying to be a family nurse practitioner and pursuing concentrations in global health and cancer. She graduated from Villanova University in 2011 with a bachelor’s in psychology and minor in Italian. After college she moved to Durban, South Africa for two years to work in an HIV/AIDS in-patient unit and hospice, as well as at a local orphanage for boys. In Durban she discovered a passion for hospice work and hopes to continue fostering discussions about palliative care, patient’s wishes, and death with dignity throughout her career. Kellie will graduate from YSN in 2018.

Conversations with a DeadHead

She is wearing a tangerine workout top accessorized by a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes, and I like her immediately. She’s animatedly reliving her latest “DeadHead” experience with her husband, and when I enter she pauses briefly (perhaps simply to inhale after emitting so many words), then says, “you a Grateful Dead fan?” And without waiting for a response, throws her hands and head back proclaiming, “oh my god they’re so good.” Even her short, cropped hair exudes spunk.

Had we not been at a cancer center, I would have assumed her appointment was a well visit or maybe even medical clearance for a half marathon. But 3 minutes prior to entering her room I had seen her chart and recent scans, and knew better.

That’s the thing about cancer- it doesn’t discriminate like some other picky eaters of the disease world. It isn’t ageist like Alzheimer’s, or sexist like color blindness. It doesn’t care how often you exercise, what color you skin have, or how stressful your job is. Of course some habits or genetics may make you an easier target, but really no one is safe from its predatory indifference. It selects its prey and then quietly creeps through your body, multiplying its troops as it goes. And finally, like most rebel armies, it attempts to overthrow your current regime with a mutinous coup.

I am brought back to the situation by the sound of her laughter: it is hearty and rough, which is what makes it so warm. It isn’t delicate or dampened because we’re in a doctor’s office; it is radiating and real, and I am struck by how carefree and joyful she is given the situation. As we sit down to discuss the treatment plan, she pulls out her phone to ask my preceptor the list of questions she’s compiled. Within the seconds, though, there is a shift, and now I can see cracks in her façade. She asks about the safety of the clinical trial- her pace increases and her voice wobbles a bit; about nutrition tips she read on a breast cancer blog- her leg is shaking now; and finally about her prognosis- she drops her gaze. I understand her action because my preceptor’s face says plenty before he utters a sound.

He does not use the word “incurable” as he assures her this chemo regimen is her best shot at surviving. Nor does he coddle her as he reminds her that her stage 4 cancer has already metastasized to her spine and hips. She nods, looking simultaneously defeated and defiant. She says she doesn’t want to let this thing run her life. She also says she wants to partake in the trial so that even if she doesn’t beat it, they will have the data for future women. She mentions her looming mortality as casually as possible, but it’s clear she’s scared.

She is set to receive her first injections today before starting infusions next week, and my preceptor asks if I want stay for them even though he has to go help the other students. I double-check that she’s ok with this and then nod. As we wait for the RN to enter, I try to say something comforting but it comes out awkward and artificial. She nods absentmindedly. The nurse comes in and informs her that the medicine is thick so the injections might be uncomfortable. Her face pales as she says, “Ok, here we go,” though she speaks more to herself than to anyone else.

She bends over and pulls down her jeans, and I tear through my mental arsenal of encouragement, desperate to find something that doesn’t sound like a platitude or a motivational poster. Finally, unable to watch her fear escalate further while my stunned tongue lies lazily in my mouth, I reach out and grab her hand. She looks at me and smiles. “You’ve got this,” I say firmly, “you’re going to do great.” She nods and the smile creeps towards her eyes.

She squeezes my hand lightly as the shots are administered, and when it’s over she breathes a sigh of relief. She zips up her pants and makes a joke about there being plenty of surface area “back there” for the nurse to choose from. She is returning to her spunky, irreverent self, and I smile. I shake her hand goodbye, giving it an extra squeeze, and confess that I am still learning and a bit unsure of myself, so I thank her for letting me observe. She dons that eye-crinkling grin, looks me in the eye and gently says, “My pleasure. You’ve got this, you’re going to do great.”