That post caught my attention and brought me back to my own 12 month prognosis. Which happened long ago, in early 2013.
When I published Lifesaving Gratitude, it was for one person. Not for me, but for that one person out there, that one frightened cancer patient or family member who was hearing the bad news for the first time and thinking, “Where’s the hope?” I thought if I could offer something that would provide a tiny sliver of hope and comfort to that one person, I would have done what was most important with my cancer diagnosis. I didn’t know who that one person was, but I knew the book I needed at the moment of my diagnosis. So I wrote it.
If you haven’t read the book, here’s Chapter 25 in its entirety. My doctor didn’t want me to read the letter he wrote to my insurance company, but I did.
The big news is that I’m still here, still writing, still churning out what I want for you – Hope. In January 2013, I didn’t feel hopeful. I felt frightened and tired and ugly and depressed. Here are the words I wrote that day: (by the way, you can get the entire book at this link)
Chapter 25 – Prognosis: 12 Months
It’s January. A new year with new worries, a new
deductible to pay, new chemo treatments coming up.
I continue to be worried about money. One would think that I spend my
time thinking about my health, about recovery, about the damn
cancer, but the truth is that I mostly think about money.
“You have that $250,000 life insurance policy,” T. J. says,
because in addition to being my cousin and my supporter-deluxe, he is also my insurance guy. “If you want, you’re allowed
to cash it in and get a portion of that money to live on, especially when you have a life-threatening condition. You could
probably get about $115,000.”
I seem to have a life-threatening condition these days.
“You just have to get your oncologist to write a letter telling
the insurance company what your prognosis is.”
At my next appointment, which seems to follow closely on
the heels of the last appointment, Dr. L goes through my blood
tests and tells me I’m good for my third chemo treatment on
Wednesday. I bring up the letter to the insurance company.
“Sure,” Dr. L says. “I write those all the time. What exactly
do you need for it to say?”
“I guess the truth. Right?
“Right. I can’t make something up. But how specific do
you need for me to be? And do you want to see it before it
gets sent?”
I tilt my head and look at him.
“Well, Bunny, people sometimes don’t want to read what
their prognosis is. Seeing it in black and white is sometimes a
shock. I can just send it directly if you prefer.”
I’m tough. Johanna’s tough. We aren’t going to be set back
by a letter to my life insurance company.
“Nah,” I say, “just go ahead and write it, and I’ll pick it up
so I can get it to T. J. to send on.”
“Okay,” he says and turns to the nurse. “Make a note for
me to write the life insurance letter before Friday this week.”
On Friday afternoon, after I’m unplugged from the pump
and when I’m ready for my celebratory lunch (Yay! We’ve
made it through our third treatment!), Johanna stops at the
desk downstairs and picks up the promised letter.
“Should we open it?” she asks, and I nod.
“I know I’m going to get well. What could the big deal be?”
I read it first and then start to cry. Not a pretty cry. She takes
it, reads it, and then turns to me, eyes shining, and says, “It’s
not the truth. This is not what’s going to happen.”
Here is what the letter says. After the initial explanation
of my diagnosis: “51-year-old female, Metastatic colon cancer
with a corresponding 4.5-cm lesion on the liver…” etc., then
there is a line that reads, “Based on medical findings, patient’s
prognosis is 12 months.”
We are quiet on the drive home. I know we need the celebratory lunch. I also know we need the life insurance money.
But I know we will never send that letter to anyone. It is not
true. It cannot be true. It will not be true
Bunny Terry is a native New Mexican who grew up on a farm in northeastern New Mexico. Her first writing job was typing stories on index cards on her family’s Underwood, stories that were uncannily like the ones she read over and over in O Ye’ Jigs and Julips, her favorite childhood book. No one thought to save those index cards for posterity, although there is the theory sarcastically circulated by her siblings that they will certainly be worth millions someday. 