Sometimes I look up prognosis statistics. I know everyone says you shouldn’t. “The data is outdated,” “you are more than a number,” “probabilities can’t be applied to the individual,” blah, blah, blah. Yes, that’s all true, and I echo the same sentiments to others. But sometimes I do it anyway. The numbers are there, and I want to know them.
I’ll spare you the details and let you do your own google searching, but for Ken’s diagnosis, these numbers aren’t my favorite.
The real, raw truth is that this is scary. This is pull-your-hair-out, scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs, curl-up-in-the-fetal-position, cry-until-your-eyes-hurt, choose-your-favorite-expletive scary.
And a lot of people can’t handle that level of scary. I can’t blame them- I might opt out of this realization if it was at all possible for me to do so. But the situation constantly glares me in the face, and I’m a factual, emotional person who has to deal with things head on.
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