I recently wept as though it were the last night of my life.
I was certain that my scans the next day would confirm what my body had been telling me for the last three months: The cancer is back and you’ll soon be dead.
It was the last night of my blissful ignorance. For only a handful of hours, I still had the luxury of uncertainty. The next day’s results would end the reign of my denial. There wouldn’t be any pretending once the results came back.
A man can only stick his head so far into the sand, and denying the likely fate of metastatic recurrence more closely resembles delusion than positivity. Stage 3 kidney cancer can be survived about half the time, I know, but I also know that recurrence with aggressive metastases presents a much more dire picture
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