By Dr. Carol Loescher

Ellen Therese Doyle—My Medical Missionary Friend

Like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs, you could find Ellen if you followed all the scraps of masking tape purpled with the initials “ETD.” She plastered them on everything she owned. Ellen was a nurse and my coworker in medical missions for 26 years. She waltzed into my life in 1998, wearing a bright blue dress with a white broad-brimmed hat. She attended our “send-off service,” looking like a package all wrapped up and topped with a white bow. She joined me and my family of five in Cameroon a few months later, and the “package” blossomed into a “gift.”

A few days after her arrival, we started down a dirt trail in the jungle for some exercise. After zigzagging down the footpath, I glanced back to chat with Ellen. Her face was beet red! Alarmed, I asked, “Should we stop and return home?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she quipped, “Just keep going.” Thus, we started down a path together that wound its way all over the globe.

Ellen became . . .

My helper in the clinic, the bush, the prison, and the hospital in Cameroon;
My roommate on medical trips to Zambia, Togo, Benin, and the West Bank;
My tent buddy in the remote African bush; and
My partner in adventure.

Ellen was undauntable. In 2016, Dr. Brown gently informed Ellen that her biopsy detected liver cancer. With tear-filled eyes, she replied: “I’m not afraid of the destination. I’m afraid of the journey.” But she never manifested fear—ever! In 2023, I was her roommate on a medical outreach to the West Bank. One morning, at 4 a.m., the boom of bombs and bullets jerked us out of sleep. Panic-stricken, I stared out the window until I read a text message from our director: “Stay in your rooms and away from the windows.” “Ellen!” I urged, “Let’s get on the floor and pray!” She joined me on the tile, and we asked the Lord to protect us. After we said, “Amen,” I remained kneeling and shaking while Ellen calmly climbed back into her bed. “Ellen!” I scolded, “What are you doing?” As she pulled up the covers, she sighed, “I’d rather die of a bullet than a metastasis.” And she promptly fell back to sleep.

Ellen was confident of God’s goodness and His love. She lived joyfully, and almost recklessly, not like a victim of cancer. Against her wishes, declining health forced Ellen to return to the US in January 2024. But she NEVER left the mission field. The earth under Ellen’s feet was her mission field, and the person in front of Ellen was her concern. She left one of her journals with me when she departed for a “medical furlough.” Its pages revealed a secret (Yes, I read her diary). In it, I discovered an explanation for her tenacity in adversity and her peace despite pain:

"The degree of your peace is dependent on your ability to place things (that you know) about God between yourself and that problem."

In her distinctive scrawl, she addressed God: "You are God. You are a Rock. You love me." Then she scribbled a sliver of a sermon: “Don’t play the victim. You can’t be a victor if you play the victim. Victims cannot be cheerful.”

Ellen left the journal behind but seared the contents in her heart. She placed God’s goodness between herself and her cancer. Disregarding a life-threatening disease, she focused her attention on the needs of others. She loved the African bush. With a team of national pastors and fellow missionaries, Ellen and I forded rivers and slid down muddy trails. Green moss on red clay is like ice on asphalt! Together, we set up crude clinics in remote villages. I enjoyed the jungle, but Ellen loved the patients! After consulting hundreds of hurting people, I longed for home, but Ellen always wanted to stay “just a little longer.”

For several years, we also treated prisoners in our hometown. Our patients faced accusations ranging from misdemeanors to murder. Wherever we went, the prison, the bush, or overseas, Ellen never traveled without her well-worn Bible and her dog-eared medical reference, Where There Is No Doctor. I’m a doctor, but that didn’t daunt Ellen. My crude consulting desk was usually beside hers. Without a wall between us, Ellen’s inquiries would invade my space. When her patient complained of lower back pain, Ellen would reply: “You have a backache?” “Oh! I hurt mine in a car accident.” “Does your neck bother you?” “Mine hurts here.” Then she would poke and prod their painful places. From the corner of my eye, I would watch Ellen climb out of her chair, pretzel herself in odd angles against her desk, and demonstrate her favorite exercises. For an illness such as malaria, she consulted Where There Is No Doctor and prescribed medications. Her patients felt better before they took the first tablet! Ellen befriended them; she sympathized with them; she touched them; and she cared.

Ellen cared much more about their souls than their bodies. She was an energetic nurse, but she was a diehard evangelist. Whether the provider or the patient, she shared her faith. I accompanied her to Heidelberg for at least sixteen TACE (Transarterial Chemoembolization) procedures. She never entered the hospital empty-handed. Armed with a huge black purse loaded with tracts, she distributed her goods with gusto. From the secretary to the surgeon, she shared the Gospel.

Words and stories can’t capture Ellen, so I’ll compare her to people that you know. By nature, she was a “Martha” in ceaseless service, but she was a “Mary” in communion with the Lord. On long nights when sleep fled and the miseries of cancer kept her awake, Ellen liked to gaze at the moon from her bedroom window and commune with God. The moon was a tangible beacon of His presence. I suppose she cast her burdens on the Lord during those long, lonely nights, but she never cast aspersions on His faithfulness. Ellen was even a little like Lazarus. The pathology of her cancer condemned her to a lifespan of one to two years. Instead, she survived and thrived nearly eight years after its discovery, running with patient endurance the journey that she feared.

After Ellen’s cancer was detected in Cameroon, I traveled with her to Heidelberg to consult a world-renowned liver surgeon. Dr. Buchler was intrigued by an American nurse living in West Africa. He assumed she was a nun. “No, I’m a missionary,” Ellen countered. “What is a missionary?” he inquired. She seized that opportunity to tell him about the Lord. But I could have answered the question in a nutshell: The patient in front of you, Ellen Doyle, is the epitome of a “missionary.” In danger, she remained undaunted. In service, she was indefatigable. Despite life-threatening obstacles, she was confident of her calling, devoted to duty, and firm in her faith.