It was a thick mahogany brown desk that stood between my fate and I. The room, although warm, felt piercing and icy. I sat, crippled in my chair, not from disease, but from fear of what I was about to hear...what I already knew in my heart to be true. I wanted to be anywhere else, but was forced be there in that moment to experience what was to be the most painful feeling of my life. I was obligated by life itself to hear words as sharp as razors slice into my very flesh to the bone, to the core, to the soul.
When my doctor uttered the words, "you have cancer" I was sure she had to have been talking to and about someone else. I wanted to look around me for the person I had been mistaken for but there was no one to be found. That dagger was meant for me. What I really heard was "you just died." My heart broke at once and devastation painted my blood. It was though I was told the love of my life had past away, that love of my life being me. I felt as though I could faint, cry, scream, disappear and explode all at the exact same time. And yet I could do nothing but stare at the floor motionless as if time stood still. I eventually muttered "I think I'm going to faint" but never did. Unfortunately, I remained fully conscious, fully aware and in utter and complete anguish.
My doctor then went on to say that it was some type of lymphoma and I remember thinking "at least it has a pretty name." At least that suits me, I thought. Lymphoma. It had a nice ring to it. She could have said a mouthful like epithelioid hemangioendothelioma. It could have sounded much worse, that much I knew. And then I felt guilty for thinking such haphazard thoughts.
Somehow I managed the courage to speak and asked her how advanced my condition was and even more bravely if I would even live. Her face grew grim once more as all ounces of hope drained from my body and she said "we just don't have enough information yet" and "once it gets into the spleen..." as she trailed off. I had heard enough. Had she gone on I wouldn't have listened anyway. My capacity for earth shattering news had been filled to the brim and was overflowing with a grey slimy sludge that pervaded all my senses.
As I look back now, two months later, I realize that I did die that day in a sense. Nothing about my life has been the same since and I often don't remember the women I used to be before. I am certainly not her now nor will I ever be again. I have hope that once I put myself back together the person I come to find is ostentatiously far prettier both inside and out than a pretty name for cancer will ever be.
When my doctor uttered the words, "you have cancer" I was sure she had to have been talking to and about someone else. I wanted to look around me for the person I had been mistaken for but there was no one to be found. That dagger was meant for me. What I really heard was "you just died." My heart broke at once and devastation painted my blood. It was though I was told the love of my life had past away, that love of my life being me. I felt as though I could faint, cry, scream, disappear and explode all at the exact same time. And yet I could do nothing but stare at the floor motionless as if time stood still. I eventually muttered "I think I'm going to faint" but never did. Unfortunately, I remained fully conscious, fully aware and in utter and complete anguish.
My doctor then went on to say that it was some type of lymphoma and I remember thinking "at least it has a pretty name." At least that suits me, I thought. Lymphoma. It had a nice ring to it. She could have said a mouthful like epithelioid hemangioendothelioma. It could have sounded much worse, that much I knew. And then I felt guilty for thinking such haphazard thoughts.
Somehow I managed the courage to speak and asked her how advanced my condition was and even more bravely if I would even live. Her face grew grim once more as all ounces of hope drained from my body and she said "we just don't have enough information yet" and "once it gets into the spleen..." as she trailed off. I had heard enough. Had she gone on I wouldn't have listened anyway. My capacity for earth shattering news had been filled to the brim and was overflowing with a grey slimy sludge that pervaded all my senses.
As I look back now, two months later, I realize that I did die that day in a sense. Nothing about my life has been the same since and I often don't remember the women I used to be before. I am certainly not her now nor will I ever be again. I have hope that once I put myself back together the person I come to find is ostentatiously far prettier both inside and out than a pretty name for cancer will ever be.
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