I’d only recently been diagnosed. I spent three months in a giant black cloud, a blur, a perpetual state of panic filled with long letters and sympathetic stares and sleepless nights and sincere statements from earnest doctors who looked me straight in the eye and said things like “Your urine test showed signs of pathology.” “I’m going to send you to a specialist.” “You’ll need a CAT scan.” “Here’s my number, call anytime.” “You’ll probably vomit regularly for a few days after the treatment.” And “I’m sorry to say there’s still some malignancy.”
What do you say? You’re twenty-seven and you won’t see thirty. It’s all so unfair.