A Life-Altering Diagnosis
It all began with a phone call that would change everything. I was standing in the whale room of the American Museum of Natural History, captivated by the sheer enormity of the life-size blue whale suspended overhead. My 5-year-old was enthusiastically sharing fascinating facts, like how it would take 70 friends holding hands to encircle the magnificent creature. The moment was filled with childlike wonder, yet in the back of my mind, I was bracing for what I knew was coming.
After a series of unexplained broken ribs, peculiar blood test results, and some alarming fainting episodes, I had been anticipating this call. Hearing the words “incurable blood cancer” felt surreal, particularly as I later learned that this same diagnosis had taken the life of my idol, the comedian Norm Macdonald. At 47, I felt youthful and vibrant, jogging four miles every morning and always opting for the stairs to my eighth-floor apartment. I was reminded of a scene from the film “50/50,” where Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s character incredulously responds to his cancer diagnosis, “That doesn’t make any sense, though. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I recycle.”
The hematologist, a compassionate older doctor, informed me that this was not her specialty, but she would connect me with a more qualified expert within her hospital. As she spoke, the conversation was frequently interrupted by the playful chaos of children roaming nearby. She reassured me that while my condition was indeed not curable, it was treatable. She expressed hope that I would have many more years ahead of me. She also mentioned that I was fortunate not to have cancers within her specialty, as those patients often faced rapid and painful declines. Despite her well-intentioned words, I found little comfort in them.
“Please don’t drop me,” I implored her. She assured me that my new doctor would be reaching out shortly and wished me the best. I escaped the bustling atmosphere of the museum and found a quiet bench under the shade, feeling the weight of uncertainty on that crisp early fall day.
It was exactly 42 minutes later when my phone rang again. My initial questions for the new doctor had spiraled from “How long do I have left?” to “Can I still enjoy soda water?” But when I answered, it was not the doctor; it was his hurried secretary, inquiring if I was available for a meet-and-greet the following Friday—10 days away. I explained that this felt far too urgent for a casual introduction. She suggested that I might want to consult with my primary care physician in the meantime—the very same doctor who had overlooked several glaring warning signs in the preceding years, and who had now firmly secured a spot on my list of people I would prefer never to speak with again.
