The advantage to being a physician, especially a surgeon, when you know you’re going to die, is that you can skip all the preliminary stages of grief as defined by Kubler-Ross and go straight to acceptance. It’s much more efficient, because you know how things work, and how they don’t, and even though there is still hope, as there always is, and I have seen the fulfillment of that hope more than once, it remains as a precious heavy jewel hanging over the abyss on a gossamer thread, spinning, more likely to fall than to not.
The first stage. Denial. What’s to deny? I could feel the hand in my right chest, grasping my lung. I could hear the saddle-creak of leather with the stethoscope against my right side. I gave the ear piece to Sue. She listened, and I could see her eyes widen, even she knew. Denial? Not a chance. My Phoenix had arrived.
The second stage. Anger. What’s the point? I’m not super young and have had a wonderful life. I’ve seen many wonders, many places, have children, grandchildren and a lifetime of memories to carry me on. I’m not angry at anyone, especially God. I remember feeling, when it first occurred to me that I might be dying, was gratitude. My first thought immediately after that of I might not survive this, like “tock” follows “tick”, was an immense appreciation. I even smiled. I was so thankful for the life I’ve thus far been given. I remember thinking, Thank God. Thank God I was able to live this long. I see Sue under a midnight sky in a baby-blue parka, the white faux-fur rimmed hood surrounding her face, like a pretty young Inuit of pale skin and Roman features. I see rays of sunlight dancing down into the clear dark blue waters of the City of Refuge, bouncing off the gray backs of dolphins beneath me, my granddaughter by my side, transfixed by the beauty and wonder and magic of it all. Anger? How could that even be possible?
The third stage. Bargaining. I’ve already had a lifetime of chances. I’ve been good, and I’ve been bad. It’s too late for second chances when I’ve already had thousands. I wouldn’t presume to insult God with more promises when I’ve already broken so many. I am not worthy of more when I have already had so much.
The fourth stage. Depression. Sure, I’m sad, who wouldn’t be, but I’m still hungry. I still eat. I still laugh. I certainly am enjoying my life. I’ve written how the days are brighter, and it’s true. I’m not making that up. I love the sky in the morning and the stars at night. I like the clouds, the smell of rain, the birds across the sky, the Saguaro cacti in Scottsdale, the bougainvillea bushes that grow like weeds along the roads on Queen Ka’ahumanu Highway, I love it all, always have, always will, still do. I just love it more now. So, I don’t feel depressed, just sad, and I think of it more often than not these days.
The fifth stage. Acceptance. This is where I feel I’m at, or at least was. I got there within five minutes of seeing my chest x-ray, two day after the appearance of the pleural rub, and the CT scan didn’t change my impression, or my staging. It was relatively instant. My first thought, after was, if I’m on disability and then I die, will my employer provided, term life policy still be in effect, I mean, if I’m disabled and not working? My second thought was I probably shouldn’t max out on the premiums for my variable-life policy, which I was going to begin doing in 2019 for the next five years. It would make more sense to make the minimal payments to realize the death benefit. My third thought was, how much can I budget for travel and not working without compromising Sue’s security. I mean, with my new-found exuberance for life, I don’t want to spend any more precious time working and away from my those I love and the places I love most. Pretty cold. Pretty clinical, but what would you expect? That’s the scientist in me I suppose, the fixer, the investor, the planner, the controller. Where is my rah, rah, we can beat this thing spirit? Why am I giving up so easily? Why is it all that I feel is resignation? I must still be evolving.