Last year, a mass in my groin suddenly appeared. Within 24 hours, I visited my dermatologist and internist and had a sonogram. A hernia was ruled out, but no one knew for sure what it was, so I was advised to go to a cancer surgeon. By the time I saw the surgeon, a few days later, I had decided I had lymphoma and would probably die. He, too, couldn’t make a firm diagnosis, so we scheduled surgery.
I was apprehensive, for sure, but I was formulating my plan of action. I’d do everything I could to take care of my problem. I wouldn’t tell my kids until I absolutely had to since I didn’t think it was necessary for them to suffer, too. I’d also continue working, provided I was up to it.
I am not overly brave or selfless but I needed to have a plan of action so I could avoid having an illness take control of me. Even if disease stinks, I wouldn’t want it consume me mentally. Physically is bad enough.
My sister’s FOF colleague had Stage IV colorectal cancer and worked until the weekend she died. A fellow parent had ovarian cancer, over 25 years ago, when our kids were in Pre-K. She didn’t let it get her down and was there for her daughter as long as she could hold her head up. My former mother-in-law had serious pulmonary disease in her eighties but did everything she could to live as normally as possible. No one bitched and complained, “Why me?”
Why not me?