Yesterday, you knew your life… your hobbies, your routines, your dreams.

Today, everything changes. 

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A diagnosis that arrived (uninvited and announced) 

alters how you experience reality. 

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Suddenly, you’re a patient… what an odd new descriptor to add to your repertoire of sister, mother, teacher, friend. 

A patient in a sterile hospital bed, 

fluorescent lights so bright a headache is inevitable, 

eating something mushy and lukewarm. 

A patient with monitors beeping next to you, down the hall from you, over the intercom, and even next to you 

(yes, you don’t even have the privacy of your own room). 

A patient whose story is lost in the stacks of charts with no cure. 

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But wait! I’m not feeling patient! 

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Not but yesterday, I was a woman with a dog, 

building a house for my kids, 

cooking up a storm in my kitchen, 

taking photography trips up North. 

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This is NOT what I asked for! 

I’m not ready to relinquish that. 

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Doctors whirl in and out of my room like a revolving door in New York City.

Positive, positive, positive… (Not in the good way) 

Thoughts of denial race through my mind 

This can’t be happening 

I’m too young for this 

Why me? 

Why now??? 

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When all else seems stripped away, the last thing I can hold onto is my humanity— and I’ll clutch onto it with all my might. 

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No one can take this away from me! 

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Except, as that revolving door continues to swirl, pre-occupied doctors who seem too rushed to even take a seat begin to dance. 

They dance around the punchline like ballerinas, 

Pointing their toes at euphemisms

(What drain are we circling??) 

Performing a tour jeté with each glimpse of hope 

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I know there is no hope. 

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Watching that dance every morning at rounds, I start to lose little pieces of my humanity.

Is this dance the last thing that I’ll know? 

At least I used to like ballet. 

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A new visitor came to see me today…the first new face in a while…I don’t know how long…I don’t even know what day it is today. 

Maybe palliative care…or a chaplain…I didn’t catch their title. 

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They entered my room with a warm smile 

brushed the dust off the chair next to my bed 

and took a seat. 

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How has this been for you? How have you been coping? 

What are your fears or worries? 

Goals or priorities? 

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Also for the first time in a while, I didn’t dance. 

I spoke. 

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I spoke about my anxieties of leaving my family, 

questions about after-death, 

my favorite restaurant recommendation on Main Street, 

my dog, 

my goal to make it to my son’s wedding. 

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And also for the first time in a while, they listened. 

 

There was nothing left to fix— 

at least, not biologically. 

But something else, something deeper, felt mended— 

My humanity.