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Last May I was sitting in a waiting room with several other anxious people. We were all awaiting attention. A potentially life-changing opinion from a professional concentrated my mind particularly sharply. We have all been there: waiting silently, flicking through mindless magazines, speculating on what the person opposite or next to us is in for but all the time thinking about ourselves.

Now I was the vulnerable, anxious supplicant sitting in the breast cancer clinic leafing idly through those magazines and affecting nonchalance. I had found the lump a few weeks before; several health professionals had already had a thorough prod and peer around and sent off microscopic bits of me for investigation. I was in the waiting room, awaiting test results and considered assessment of my plight. As a social care professional for many years, used to analysing problems and dishing out professional opinion, this was serious boot-on-the-other-foot time.


The Macmillan nurse had such a look of sincere caring concern; I wondered how she maintained this with everyone. I suspected bad news when she invited me into a comfy, non-medical room with low lighting, armchairs, pastel colours and flowers. When the doctor delivered my diagnosis, with a steady gaze but blank expression, I found myself linked into eye contact with the nurse. I asked her questions because she looked as if she cared about service users. The doctor's blank look was entirely understandable. It was a safe look when you have to daily deliver life-changing decisions.

The nurse offered to connect me with counselling and support groups. There was even talk about aromatherapy. She really cared that I knew what resources were available. Although I'm good at recommending counselling for others, I declined the offer. I've personally always found denial a helpful strategy in times of trouble. Trouble? What trouble? The nurse maintained her caring face yet didn't press me. She gave me leaflets and again I wondered how she kept this up.

After the diagnosis I had to wait a month for the operation, during which I felt slightly disconnected from reality. The nurse reminded me of her availability on the phone should I feel the need to talk. The operation was not much fun but the lump was removed. But three months later I was back in the waiting room again to discuss exactly what post-operative treatment awaits me. They were running unusually late. The caring faced nurse emerged and personally apologised and reassured me. She actually seemed to care when clients had to wait. Several troubled souls in the waiting room were lightened by a touch of empathetic human contact and a kind face.


Walking down my local high street the other day an energetic young man stopped me, saying I had the look of an angel of mercy. He was trying to encourage me to sponsor a child in the third world. I declined to agree to sponsorship, citing a bad case of compassion fatigue. He understood. He had a caring face.

Jenny Kitto is a family court adviser for Cafcass and associate Diploma in Social Work lecturer.