Little things can make a big difference

I have had a medical test and exam every six months since becoming a breast cancer survivor. Things that make this process easier are a friendly staff and pleasant surroundings. Last week, I was pleased to find the clinic had replaced its lightweight examination gowns with ones made from a heavier material. The gowns were soft and tied in all the right places. I gave my effusive thumbs-up of approval to the staff.

Anyone, male or female, who has endured wearing a paper exam gown with the strength of a poor-quality paper napkin understands what I am talking about. These paper gowns are in shreds by the time you get on the exam table. They make it impossible to feel the least bit decent. You feel like a lab specimen. Some of the ones made of thin cloth are no better. They snap or tie awkwardly. They lack enough coverage. Occasionally, I would take the gown off and throw it in the dirty clothes bin in frustration. The gown one has to wear may seem like a little thing. When you are going through stressful medical experiences, a little thing can make a big difference.

At the clinic where I am a patient, careful thought is given to the patient’s needs. When the word “cancer” is spoken in reference to you, that alone is a lot to process. It helps to be surrounded by pleasing colors and nice artwork. As an artist, I appreciate these details. And the coffee machine in the waiting room actually works.

One of the most anxious times one has when being tested and checked for cancer is waiting for test results. This clinic streamlines that process. After the test, the radiologist reads the test right away and reports the results. There are no days of waiting or constantly checking the patient portal. Right after that, you have a follow-up meeting with the radiation oncologist, who goes over everything and answers questions. On this last visit, all three steps of the process were completed for me in 45 minutes.

Here is how this all began. I was feeling pretty good about my health in 2023. At the conclusion of my annual mammogram in June, I was asked to return for a follow-up test. At the conclusion of the second test, the radiologist came into the room. The test results were not conclusive. She recommended an even more invasive test, a biopsy. I argued. We talked. She said she could not, in good conscience, give me a pass. I agreed to further testing, which revealed cancer at a very early stage. Had it been let go until my next annual exam, the results could have been much different. She saved my life.

Many more tests and doctors’ appointments later, I had two surgeries back-to-back in November of 2023. Six weeks later, I started a daily regimen of 38 consecutive radiation treatments. I also began targeted immunotherapy. I was scheduled to have 17 injections over 51 weeks. I was relieved to learn that the protocol for my immunotherapy changed during my treatment period. I was released after 14 treatments instead of 17 in November, 2024. Many others I met during these months were more seriously ill and faced more lengthy treatment. A little thing that made a difference was walking to the parking garage on my own steam after a treatment. I noticed it and was grateful for it every time.

The surgeries and the immunotherapy were administered by Baptist MD Anderson in Jacksonville. That hospital also has beautiful artwork. At every visit, I would look at a very large painting of squash blossoms next to the bank of elevators I needed to use. The artist rendered these somewhat unremarkable flowers so beautifully in light and shadow. I would study the details while waiting for the elevator to take me to whatever was coming next.

Squash blossoms by Susan Ober

In November of 2025, artist friends and I went to the open studio weekend at the CoRK Arts District in Jacksonville that happens just once a year. As we walked among the studios, I was surprised to find the studio of the artist who painted the squash blossoms. It turned out she had painted a series of these flowers. She was commissioned to paint the one I loved at the hospital. Her original paintings cost far more than I could afford. To my delight, she had made quality prints of several paintings. As I was paying for a print, I told her why I was buying it and how much seeing her work in the hospital had meant to me. Her eyes filled with tears. We hugged. She had hoped, in creating the art for the hospital, that her work would be seen by those who needed to see it. My choosing to tell her why I was buying her print was a little thing that made a big difference to both of us.

Susan Ober

Was everything I experienced during my cancer journey like being wrapped in a soft new robe? No. But I made it through, thanks to the little things that made a big difference.

What little thing will you do this week that could make a big difference for someone?