Even if I felt like I could talk about it, she is barely into the prologue of her diagnosis so, at least for now, there isn't much to say. There is still a great deal of research that must be done before her story can even begin to be written. Still more tests to be performed, more of the seemingly cold, objective, poking and prodding. Without actually going through this experience myself, how could I possibly do justice to the chapters she will soon be facing?
Chapters full of sitting in those damn paper gowns, waiting fearfully for unwanted results in cold, badly lit rooms. Paragraphs describing what it's like to sit across from a grim faced specialist, outlining one seemingly unpalatable option after another. Discussing treatments with people who insist on talking about her body as if it wasn't hers.
Chapters filled with evenings at home, waiting next to a silent phone praying that it will ring. Or perhaps even worse, next to a phone that won't stop ringing. Paragraphs filled with guilt for avoiding people who mean well but can't help but look at her differently. People who reach out because they are healthy and able, reminding her that she is no longer whole.
Will there be a chapter about surgery? Chemotherapy? Radiation? Can anyone definitively stage it yet? What's the actual prognosis? What's being said to her face? What's actually written in the doctor's progress notes?
It's impossible. As much as I'd like to, as much as I feel I NEED to, I can't write a story about the unknown.
I would willingly compose a tale in which I'm the main character.
I imagine that being a nurse, this character would be more comfortable in the myriad of hallways and rooms she'd have to maneuver. She'd know more, at least based on her experience as a caregiver, about the ins and outs of treatment options. What side effects to expect and what signs and symptoms to report. She wouldn't feel as overwhelmed or lost in this sterile, unyielding environment.
No. I can't write her story. Not without permission. Not when the villain is still living incognito. Not until she states how she's going to face her attacker. Until then, we worry via text and get updates through e-mail.
But, I can write about my fears. I can write about how I'm awake, composing this in a silent house, filled with people who know yet are still able to find sleep. I can write about how I spend my days waiting for a phone call, wanting to know more but unwilling to call - afraid to push.
No.
It's not my story to tell, just like, try as I might to place myself in her role as the main character, it isn't my battle to fight.
This post is written in response to a prompt from:
