When Told You Are Dying

I was admitted to the oncology ward of a hospital for pancreatic cancer a few weeks ago, but to everyone's surprise (especially the doctors'), biopsy results a few days after my admission showed no malignancy yet. Below, I try to express some of the things I thought during that time.

During a trip to the Emergency room for abdominal pain, the doctor tells me that I appear to have pancreatic cancer. It feels like a pronouncement of death. Upon hearing the news, I have no shocked, horrified, mouth-hanging-open reaction. I just lock eyes with the doctor in an incredulous, grave stare as if waiting for the punch line of a terribly bad joke.

You see, this is not on my agenda, I thought. I checked my agenda this morning. Nope. It wasn't there. Somehow, my mind has decided on its own to protect me. I want to mentally run away but barriers have gone up around my conscious mind to keep me in place -- in the moment. Somewhere deep down, my subconscious mind has decided that if I run away, I will come upon the flashing neon sign that says, "Soon you will be gone. You will be dead; lying in the cold ground with the worms and insects. Everyone and everything else will continue as is, without you, as though you never existed at all."

My foremost thoughts come to a screeching halt and all other thoughts pile up behind them like a bad multiple car wreck. I am shocked and confused, and I don't want to look at the wreckage. I am numb and I think it would be best to stay that way for a bit. I know that pancreatic cancer is one of the most lethal, fast-acting and ravenous cancers there are. I don't even bother asking questions of the doctor. I don't want to hear watered-down statements about prognosis.

I need to leave to go outside and get some air to try to become as calm on the inside as I appear to be on the outside. Is that possible? Okay, maybe not. But it can't hurt to try. The doctor does not want me to leave. He makes a strong case about why I should stay and be admitted. I think to myself, Ain't nobody got time for that. It's a phrase from a viral video where someone called "Sweet Brown" tells the world how she feels about the fire in her building.

I agree to stay if I am allowed to go out to the parking lot and get personal belongings I brought with me because I had a feeling I might be admitted. The pain I was having was a "go to the hospital and you will need to stay" kind of pain. Besides, I would finally get some air, like I wanted.

"What about my cat?" I say, thinking out loud. The doctor rolls his eyes and looks at me like that is the least of my worries. It is. I don't want to cry in front of anyone, so I bring out my trusty sense of humor. The staff likes that and it seems to help make everyone more comfortable around me. I decide to avoid too much thinking until I am admitted and have a room where I can cry in peace if I need to.

How much will this hurt? When I get to my room, the first thing I do is set up my laptop. When the pain and the quality of life get so bad that I have no more desire to hang around, I want a palliative coma. Where and how can I get a coma? That is the first thing I look up. I have seen family members die of cancer and I think it's cruel to make them suffer through unimaginable pain that you wouldn't even let an animal have to bear.

How's my soul? Maybe I should go to church and have some work done. What is death going to be like? Heaven? Hell? Just plain oblivion? In a perfect world, the reaper would grant me the courtesy of postponing death until after the first winter storm. I love fall and I don't want to miss the last one.

Let's have some positive thoughts, shall we? No more bills or bill collectors. No more rabbit and bird food diets. I will eat everything I want and in hearty quantities. No more disappointing job interviews. No more pain, worry or suffering of any kind. No more sweltering, nasty-hot summers.

But then there are the negatives: No more beautiful and delightful fall seasons with magnificent colors. No more sunsets. No more hugs. No more riding the great bike trails, enjoying lakes and rivers, etc. No more laughing with people. No more love.

Finally, I start to cry. It's okay. I'm alone now. But I forgot that you're never alone in a hospital. Someone always wants something from you. Things like blood, urine, vital signs, reams of repetitive information; it's just endless. While I am trying to cry in private, a nurse comes in for vitals and I ask her to bring me a sleeping pill while she's at it. Might as well try for some temporary oblivion.

Along with the pancreatic tumors came severe diabetes, discovery of painful masses of adhesions, some of which were stuck to important organs from previous surgery (inoperable), a hiatal hernia, GERD and a stomach ulcer. As the doctor told me these things, I kept hearing that loud commercial guy saying, "but wait, there's more." It takes a lot to make me feel beat down. The doc's news accomplished that in record time.

I will have to be under doctors' care for the rest of my life, but now I know that I have to take extra-special care of myself. That's my good news. I know what I have to do physically for my health and it will be done. But for my mental and spiritual health, I have decided that it's time to live with gusto, taking no moment for granted. I will work on realizing my dreams, doing what I have always wanted to do with my life instead of trudging along to the beat of others. Having fun. Doing work that I enjoy. Reaching out to others. Indulging myself sometimes. Dropping the negative ninnies and doomsayers in my life and keeping realists and positives close. Taking good care of myself and those I love.

It's a shame that it took such a harsh wake-up call for me to pay attention, but things could certainly be much worse. Whenever I go, I want to be happy with what I did while I was here. Maybe I won't accomplish everything I want, but each little thing I do accomplish is a source of pleasure in accomplishment, adding a piece to the overall whole of who I am. That's good enough for me.