What happens when a cancer patient stops feeling like a prognosis and starts feeling like a person again?
“Could you speak with one of my clients? She’s been given three months to live, and this is what she is thinking of doing.”
That message landed in my inbox from one of our Double-Zero mental health contributors a couple of days ago.
I did.
The woman was under the same hospital where I was treated for stage 3 breast cancer nine years ago.
Trigger. Trigger. Trigger.
“I give hope where her oncologist prophesied death.”
Meanwhile, my youngest daughter asked my husband and I to think of something, or someone, that makes us angry.
My husband chose the marauding wild boar that keep destroying our garden.
My daughter speculated that my oncologist would be my answer.
Interesting.
My response was immediate.
“I would thank him if I ever saw him again.”
If it hadn’t been for his complete disrespect and disregard for me 9 years ago, I may never have gone on to do what I do today.
And it is possibly the most rewarding thing I have ever done.
I give hope where he prophesied death.
After I spoke to our Contributor’s client, she sent a message to me.
“Actually you have no idea how relieved I feel after having spoken with you. It’s immense.”
A little later, the therapist wrote to me.
“Just finished speaking with xxx – WOW have you helped her!!! She has hope, she feels heard and seen, she feels direction… I could go on.”
I had to stop and read those words again.
She has hope.
She feels heard.
She feels seen.
Not fixed.
Not cured.
Seen.
Sometimes that’s where healing begins.
“I do not believe in false hope. If someone is breathing, there is hope.”
People often talk about “false hope” as though hope itself is dangerous.
I don’t believe in the concept.
If someone is breathing, there is hope.
Perhaps only a glimmer.
But glimmers have a remarkable habit of becoming flames when someone is willing to fan them.
No one can promise an outcome.
No one should.
But taking away hope before the story has finished serves no one.
This woman is far from out of the woods.
But for the first time in a very long time, she feels seen.
She feels heard.
She has direction.
That matters.
So I choose to Thank You, Dear Oncologist
You sparked something in me, even though you never intended to.
And I was right.
I did not die, though you said I would.
I did not die when I did not continue chemotherapy after the MRI I paid for came back clear.
I did not die after stopping radiotherapy.
I did not die after the initial doses of Herceptin left my heart functionality plummeting and left me requiring beta-blockers to continue your treatment protocol (no thank you.)
Thank you for giving me the determination to help others.
You were wrong.
I’m so glad you were.
“A prognosis is not a prophecy.”
Our Contributor’s client has stage 4 cancer.
She currently has no detectable cancer remaining in her primary (throat) following chemotherapy and radiotherapy.
The subsequent tumour on her back has been surgically removed.
She does not yet know whether the three lesions in her brain remain following radiotherapy.
She has enlarged lymph nodes under one arm, but they have not yet been biopsied.
So, in truth…
She may not have any active cancer in her body at all.
A PET scan will reveal where things stand.
Which leaves me asking one question.
Why tell this frightened woman she has three months to live before the picture is complete?
A prognosis is an estimate.
It is not a prophecy.
She knows she needs professional help.
She knows there are still many unknowns.
But she also knows something she didn’t know before.
There is hope. (Thank you The Cancer Strategist for the graphic).
And sometimes, hope doesn’t change the diagnosis.
It changes the person facing it.
And that can change everything.
I always ask permission to share – here’s our revitalised stage 4 patient’s response.
Hope has returned.
Here’s the link to our extensive cancer resource
‘Til next time, Denise
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