“You have many months to live,” my palliative care doctor told me recently. She must’ve thought that was more polite than saying “less than a year.” I have finally advanced to the stage predicted by my oncologist, who said seven years ago, “I’m thinking years, not months.”
I was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer at age 53 and expected to live for three years. Practical to a fault, I bypassed the first four stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining and depression — and embraced acceptance. Ten days after the grim diagnosis, I wrote in my journal:
My situation isn’t so bad because:
1. Everyone has to die someday.
2. We are fortunate to have good health insurance.
3. Our children are almost adults.
4. I can be content with what I’ve been able to do in my life.
5. I won’t suffer old age.
Some may call this rationalization. But it was my serenity prayer.
Acceptance isn’t fatalism. In fact, the word “act” is hidden in plain sight within acceptance. It’s a call to convert trouble into tasks, which in our case included finding the right doctor, squaring away our financial affairs, shutting down our small business and regaining health insurance when we did.