Dear Friends and Family,
“What’s my prognosis, Winnie?”
The question didn’t emanate from Nancy, though Nancy and I occasionally discuss such things now. Instead speaking was Megan, the twenty-two-year-old ovarian cancer patient from Park City who is residing just down the hall from Nancy.
Today’s visit was different.
It was just Megan and me in the room. The postsurgical NG (nasogastric) tube has been removed from Megan’s nose and she was celebrating by sending her parents out to dinner so that she could watch Law and Order in solitude.
I’d attempted to leave, but Megan asked that I sit next to her “for a bit.” After I explained Nancy’s disease, including the disappointing change in diagnosis that lowered her odds to 30–40% from the original 70%, Megan looked me straight in the eye and posed that tough question. There was no place for me to hide.
Momentarily, I was speechless.
What could I say to this vibrant young woman, a college graduate of only three weeks?
What words could I craft for someone whose bright future and full life has been redressed in the darkest of colors?
What had her doctors told her?
Her parents?
“Megan, I don’t know the details of your disease. And, to be honest, I don’t want to know”—like with my Nancy, I sometimes choose not to ask questions or to search the medical literature—“With cancer, sometimes you don’t want to think too far in the future. For example, if Nancy needs a bone marrow transplant, her sister and brother are the logical donors. But I don’t want to know yet if one of them is a match. I will only want to know when we are forced in that direction. So I have to tell you that I don’t know the specifics of your prognosis . . . on purpose.”
My too-young friend nodded her head, acknowledging understanding, and I found myself marveling at her long, thick, ink-black hair. Her locks flowed onto her shoulders at the top of her hospital gown like the splash of a waterfall, the ends seeming to curl upward like water hitting a rock. I wondered if she was aware that she would soon be joining Nancy’s fraternity (or is it a sorority?). I wondered how she would feel about being bald. At least I would have the opportunity to tell her she was beautiful.
“That said, your prognosis . . . your numbers . . . they only matter on paper. You are young. You are strong. You are a fighter. Whether your doctors tell you that you have a 90% chance or a 9% chance, for you as one individual—it is all or nothing. Your chance is either 0% or 100%. Many people love Nancy, so I’ve received countless emails and letters. Several have included stories about patients given little or no chance who did beat the odds. For example, one of Nancy’s oldest friends, Annie Alfano from Connecticut, has a son; his name is Eric. He was born with Down’s syndrome and at six developed leukemia like Nancy. The doctors told his mother that he only had an 18% chance of surviving. I’m happy to tell you that Eric just celebrated his seventeenth birthday. Megan, the next few months will not be easy. But you are surrounded by love and will have lots of help. You can do it.”
Megan gave me the largest of smiles as a single tear ran down her left cheek. She sunk back into the many pillows on her bed, her entire body seeming to relax. I kissed her forehead and walked out the door. The tear on my left cheek matched hers.
Now that’s perspective.
My little angel, Megan, all 102 pounds of her, will be discharged from the hospital tomorrow. When her surgical scars are healed in the next few weeks, she will begin aggressive chemotherapy. Her father tells me the latest news is favorable. Most of her cancer was removed by the surgery, so they are hoping the medicine will kill the remaining tumor. Please save a thought or prayer for her.
Summary: Our fellow Park City neighbor is doing better and will go home tomorrow. We are hoping that she will inhabit the small percentage of her disease’s survival rate that does well.
With more love than I knew I possessed,
Winnie