"Two years."
He said it without any hesitation, no ahems or "I'm sorry to tell you...." The doctor sat on a stool in his office at Sloan Kettering Memorial Cancer Center in his long white lab coat and didn't blink. There was nothing apologetic in his comments or body language. He has been treating me for advanced prostate cancer for about eight years. It was inevitably a losing battle, and recently there had been an acceleration in the disease. I reminded him that about a year earlier he had estimated my life span to be between three and six years. I was 64 at the time. Now, a year later, I reminded him of that bleak calculation and asked if he had revised that estimate, which would mean between two and five years. "Two years," he said quickly. "Definitely not five. Two years." He then added as if to dismiss any further discussion, "Three years would be pushing it." He talked about what next, possibly another clinical trial, or a radioactive shot of radium once a month, or.... But I was thinking of other things. I wasn't afraid of my death sentence, although that might change in 23 months. And it still seemed a long way off. What I was worried about was telling my two adult kids. I dreaded telling my kids. The hormone therapy I've been on for the last few years makes me cry at commercials. Tears while telling them would give the impression that I was scared or filled with self pity. I would be ashamed of such behavior. Not necessarily the crying, but the pity. I kept the doctor's prognosis to myself for awhile as I came to terms with it. I told my wife the next day and we worked out a protocol for telling our children. But I still kept to myself my concern about what to do with those two years, how to avoid making them a glum funereal affair for those around me. That's a hard one to figure out. But I realized that the most important thing for me would be to make them laugh (leave 'em laughing as they say), especially my wife. She had gotten far too much of my grumpiness and far too little of my humor over the years. And now I had two years to make it up to her. And it would be important for my kids to see that I wasn't feeling sorry for myself, not living in fear or anger. They needed to know that they -- along with my wife, my career and my friends -- had given me a life that was richer than most. They needed to know that I wanted to revel in seeing them have adventures. I am already feeling bad that I am dying on them, casting a shadow on their lives. What a burden it would be for me to know that I crippled their decisions on how far to stray from home or what goals to attempt. Now to work out the details how to do this.
2 Comments
I've decided on one thing that I'm going to do with my time: Write.
Some people are compulsive talkers. I am a compulsive writer. The reason that I will write is that after I do some scribbling for a while, usually with a dose of Jamesons or Red Breast, I actually feel better. I am certain it's due more to the writing than the whiskey. I am thinking about a blog, but it's one that I will write and keep to myself for awhile until I am willing to let people know that I hear a clock ticking. It's a pleasant sounding clock, nothing ominous. But nonetheless it is ticking. The trick will be for the writing to not be a constant taking of my pulse. I don't want it to be about dying. It needs to be about observing, loving and hopefully be entertaining. I have enough good whiskey on hand to get a running start on this blog. I have a huge secret and I almost told someone this week.
I've been carrying the prognosis of a shortened life alone -- except for my wife and a drunken moment in a bar -- for more than a year. But I always assumed that the prediction of three to six years was likely wrong, or at the worst was at the six year end. But now that it's two years, the impulse is to tell someone, maybe even everyone. But is that TMI? HIM: Hey, how you doing? ME: I'm dying. How are you? It’s a real conversation stopper, so I just smile when someone asks how I'm doing or tells me I'm looking good, did I lose weight. Should I tell my boss? I'd like to quit before I get too sick to do anything enjoyable. Or is it okay to just blindside him when it's time to go? My job has been good to me, but do they need to know? I almost told someone this week. It was a woman I work with who is aware that I have cancer and she asked how I was doing. I unloaded a bit. I told her that while my wife was still recovering from her near fatal car accident, the doc told me that the cancer had moved to my spine, both hips and a few other spots. My friend looked startled, but I continued, explaining how getting weaned off the steroid prednisone (because one treatment was ending) left me aching from earlobes to toes. At its worst, I was reduced on some nights to shuffling baby steps as I made my way through Penn Station. Saying this out loud affected me and my face must have reflected something. Her eyes welled up. It was at that vulnerable moment, vulnerable for both of us, that I almost blurted it out. My hesitation came, I believe, because I wasn’t sure why I was about to tell her. Was it a desire to confide in someone? Was it pity bragging? Yeah, it’s a thing. Or did I, a storyteller, recognize the power of that finish -- even for an audience of one? It would have certainly brought her to tears. But that would have been mean, to dump that on her in the newsroom. And I would have regretted it immediately. I’m glad I turned back to my computer screen and resumed editing. She excused herself to go to the pantry for a coffee from the machine. She is a coffee snob and hates that coffee. She came back a few minutes later empty handed. |