Talking to Life
The long journey
There was a day, not so long ago. Less than six months ago, in fact. That was the day a surgeon told me that there was something seriously wrong with me.
He told me that I had to undergo 24 weeks of chemotherapy. The side effects? Neuropathy, damaged veins and hair loss. Then, if the chemotherapy gave the results he wanted to see, he would cut the wrongness out of me. But that would only be the beginning of the journey because after the operation there would be more chemotherapy and radiation therapy.
“It’s a long journey,” he said.
When I left the hospital, appointments immediately started appearing in my inbox. Before I had even driven out of the parking lot, I had already called several people.
It was a horrible day.
My life had just been overtaken by the hospital.
The best question
“What do you want?” someone asked me that evening. It was the best question anyone could have asked.
The next day, I called the hospital and said no.
The following week, I sat down with the surgeon and tried to explain why I didn’t want chemotherapy. He had a different point of view and tried to convince me with a frightening story.
I still said no.
Talking to Life
I realised that the wrongness could lead to an early death. But I wasn’t talking to Death.
I was talking to Life.
Nobody knows when it is their time to go. It can happen any day. For me and for you. When you believe you are healthy, you don’t expect to die anytime soon. Yet it is possible. An accident, for instance. You don’t choose that. It simply happens.
So did I want to die?
No.
I wanted a good life until my last day. And a long period of chemotherapy did not contribute to that.
A different surgeon
My family doctor tried to speak with the surgeon and experienced the same rigidity but she didn’t give up. Instead, she found a different surgeon in the same hospital.
I went for an appointment, and this surgeon was very clear. “I will operate on you,” she said.
A few weeks later, she cut the wrongness out of me.
The wrongness was gone
Two weeks later, she told me that the wrongness was gone. No metastases. Clear margins. “I’ll see you next year for a check-up,” she said.
“Thank you, doctor,” I said.
“You gave me my Life back.”