I'm Afraid It's Terminal

When do you announce that something is terminal? It's a sticky situation. You could announce it at the start, but terminal cases never start out terminal, first they are merely a swelling, an asymmetrical blotch, a minor nuisance that needs to be biopsied first, we'll call you when we know more. And even after the diagnosis is made, the prognosis is never really clear. It could respond to this treatment, but if not we can always try something else, and after that there's always something experimental that might work. And you fight and shift and and suddenly, before there's even the chance to catch your breath, the prognosis comes to you in the middle of the night, not in a doctor's sure and steady voice as you had hoped but in the silent and irrefutable feeling that seeps through your gut like ice cold water, "This is going to kill me." Now it's simply awkward, because the rest of the world has yet to hear the news, since you have been so busy as of late doling out medications and trying your best to fight this darned thing, and things actually looked a bit promising here and there but now this. Some friends have suspected, of course, by the gauntness of your face, but only the ones who are kind enough to take a second look, certainly not the ones who say, "How ARE you?" and have already moved on to the next person as you are just inhaling to answer. To everyone else it comes as a shock and they actually have the gall to be offended that they are latecomers to this exciting bit of news, as if people shave their heads and wear brightly colored handkerchiefs everyday to disguise their chemotherapy. And you are forced into explaining over and over how it kind of sneaked up on you and they should not feel bad for missing what were obvious signs to those few who took the time to notice. But this doesn't really change a thing and the fact is that the world is going to continue to turn whether not you are lying in a puddle hemorrhaging on the floor and whether it is over in 3 days or 3 months. But still, what a relief to finally pull yourself up and rip off the oxygen mask long enough to say, "Yes! Yes, I am dying, thanks for noticing."