By Janelle Lamontagne
“Would you like to know your prognosis?”
I had just been told that I had grade 3 brain cancer when my radiation oncologist asked me that question.
My knee-jerk reaction was to exclaim, “No!” but within seconds, I retracted that by saying, “Actually, just tell me. I’ll Google it when I get home anyways.”
The statistics given were prefaced by phrases like “median survival” and “dependent upon treatment,” but only four words penetrated my grief and echoed repeatedly in my brain: three to five years.
I don’t remember much from the rest of the appointment. I honestly don’t remember much from the rest of that day aside from telling my mom (who attended the appointment with me) that I didn’t want anyone else to know my prognosis. As unbearable as it was being told that I only had three to five years to live, the thought of displacing that pain onto my family and friends was excruciating.
It took me four months to build up the courage to share my prognosis. During those four months, I was the perfectly optimistic cancer patient in public. At night, alone, I was laying awake for hours picking out the songs I wanted played at my funeral or the poems I wanted read. Faking that I was okay was becoming more difficult by the day and my tenuous grasp on hope was slipping.
I don’t recall exactly what prompted me to finally tell the truth. I know it partially stemmed from the guilt of not being honest with my family and friends, but I think an even bigger factor was that I was exhausted. I was so tired of faking it. I decided that I needed to tell everyone as soon as possible.
To this day, sharing my prognosis is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. I’d take another brain surgery over it in a heartbeat. Telling my siblings was by far the worst. The look of devastation on their faces will forever be imprinted on my mind. I couldn’t handle reliving the telling over and over, so all my friends learned the news via group texts. It felt like I was taking the easy way out, but one of my friends actually thanked me for telling her that way; it allowed her to process everything on her own time.
Looking back, I regret that I allowed my prognosis to control me for so long. I wish I would have told people sooner. Like any secret, it seemed to grow in size and strength until I was crippled under the weight of it. Once it was out in the open, it lost its power over me. Hiding from my prognosis did not make it go away and talking about it does not make it inevitable.
I like to look at it this way:
Every person on earth is given a road map with the same destination. For some people, the route is written in invisible ink and the arrival time is unknown. For others, the map is detailed to include every speed bump and the arrival time is narrowed down to a couple years, give or take. I’m in the second group.
In some ways, I feel fortunate. I will have a chance to say my goodbyes and make peace with the life I have led. I will have a chance to accomplish everything on my bucket list because I have a tentative due date. I will learn to live for today and stop putting things off until tomorrow. I will value the preciousness of the life I am given.
Do I wish my journey was a bit more spontaneous? Of course I do, but there are pros to facing your mortality. Just like a trip to your dream country, the anticipation of the arrival is the worst part, but if you decide to backpack there and experience all the beauty along the way, it’s not so bad.
