Nightmare scenario: You're sitting across the desk from your doctor, who is telling you that the news is bad, that you have incurable cancer (or heart disease or Alzheimer's). Maybe she follows up right away with Things That Can Be Done, but your mind is reeling. You're stunned, shocked, sad, terrified.
Twice I've been present when bad news like that was announced. Once when a neurologist told my sister and me that our mother had Alzheimer's Disease (inexplicably, she was kept waiting in another room). The second time was when my sister and I sat with our aunt while she was told that her uterine cancer had not been cured by surgery. These were very difficult experiences, but neither was about my own personal mortality. Or my sister's, thank God.
But I've wondered how I'd feel. And how on earth I'd go on.
Through a loose network of high school classmates, I just came across a blog written by a woman in my class who's been diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer, a recurrence of cancer treated four years ago. I read the first few entries with trepidation--did I really want to put myself through this, reading about biopsies and surgery and chemo? But then I got engaged and read through her 2011 blog and on into her current account.
Although Pat, my classmate, recounts awful experiences (a liver biopsy) and new worries (lung nodules), she is uncommonly resilient and upbeat, bouyed by her strong Mormon faith. She includes pictures of having herself getting her head shaved when her hair falls out and then modeling a wig. There are photos of her undergoing scans and getting chemotherapy and being hugged by her various specialists. Her account left me--Mrs. Anxious--actually feeling less scared of what may lie ahead, even though I can't imagine following her example of staging a theme party for each chemo infusion (yes, she does).
She turns on a light in a dark and scary room.
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