Terminal Diagnosis Quotes

It burns, I know. It burns now, now that the story is over, now that the daybreak is liquid, now that my knees don't creak anymore and the leaves are blowing and the highway is humming, and a few extra pounds is not a terminal diagnosis. It burns in me too healing me but the ache is not for you. It's for my passion. That used to be your name. And it's sad, really. The sting of too little too late.

But here's the thing: you already have a terminal diagnosis--we all do...every person is born with a death sentence; each second that passes by is one you'll never get back.

It’s easier when the patient is ninety-four, in the last stages of dementia, with a severe brain bleed. But for someone like me—a thirty-six-year-old given a diagnosis of terminal cancer—there aren’t really words.

How to tell your pretend-boyfriend and his real boyfriend that your internal processors are failing: 1. The biological term is depression, but you don't have an official diagnostic (diagnosis) and it's a hard word to say. It feels heavy and stings your mouth. Like when you tried to eat a battery when you were small and your parents got upset. 2. Instead, you try to hide the feeling. But the dark stain has already spilled across your hardwiring and clogged your processor. You don't have access to any working help files to fix this. Tech support is unavailable for your model. (No extended warranty exists.) 3. Pretend the reason you have no energy is because you're sick with a generic bug. 4. You have time to sleep. Your job is canceling out many of your functions; robots can perform cleaning and maintenance in hotels for much better wage investment, and since you are not (yet) a robot, you know you will be replaced soon. 5. The literal translation of the word depression: you are broken and devalued and have no further use. 6. No one refurbishes broken robots. 7. Please self-terminate.

The thing about terminal illness is that it is a plane crash in slow motion. It begins with warning lights in the cockpit: a cough, tiredness, a lack of appetite, sometimes spidery handwriting across a quiz sheet. And then you get a diagnosis and lose control. And then everybody prays and cries, and waits to crash into a mountain.

In 1993, a New York hospital launched an aggressive program to screen Ashkenazi Jews for three genetic diseases, including cystic fibrosis, Gaucher’s disease, and Tay-Sachs disease (mutations in these genes are more prevalent in the Ashkenazi population). Parents could freely choose to be screened, to undergo amniocentesis for prenatal diagnosis, and to terminate a pregnancy if the fetus was found to be affected. Since the launch of the program, not a single baby with any of these genetic diseases has been born at that hospital.

Barbara brings her chair close to mine. She says that, to the outside world, suicide could seem a rational choice for someone like her or me. After all, our shared diagnosis is terminal in many cases. “Anybody else contemplating suicide would receive intervention, because they’re assumed to be depressed and treatable. But you and me . . . ? Society is too quick to allow cripples to off themselves,” she says. In fact, society sometimes seems to encourage disabled people to get out of the way, stop being a burden or stop using up scarce resources, she goes on. It can push disabled people to the margins, where they naturally become depressed. And instead of identifying their depression as treatable—instead of creating opportunities that make their lives worth living—society (she calls it “the majority culture”) wants to push for the right to die before it’s established the right to live. “You know about Jack Kevorkian, right?” she asks.

The first step in retracing our way to health is to abandon our attachment to what is called positive thinking. Too many times in the course of palliative care work I sat with dejected people who expressed their bewilderment at having developed cancer. “I have always been a positive thinker,” one man in his late forties told me. “I have never given in to pessimistic thoughts. Why should I get cancer?” As an antidote to terminal optimism, I have recommended the power of negative thinking. “Tongue in cheek, of course,” I quickly add. “What I really believe in is the power of thinking.” As soon as we qualify the word thinking with the adjective positive, we exclude those parts of reality that strike us as “negative.” That is how most people who espouse positive thinking seem to operate. Genuine positive thinking begins by including all our reality. It is guided by the confidence that we can trust ourselves to face the full truth, whatever that full truth may turn out to be. As Dr. Michael Kerr points out, compulsive optimism is one of the ways we bind our anxiety to avoid confronting it. That form of positive thinking is the coping mechanism of the hurt child. The adult who remains hurt without being aware of it makes this residual defence of the child into a life principle. The onset of symptoms or the diagnosis of a disease should prompt a two-pronged inquiry: what is this illness saying about the past and present, and what will help in the future? Many approaches focus only on the second half of that healing dyad without considering fully what led to the manifestation of illness in the first place. Such “positive” methods fill the bookshelves and the airwaves. In order to heal, it is essential to gather the strength to think negatively. Negative thinking is not a doleful, pessimistic view that masquerades as “realism.” Rather, it is a willingness to consider what is not working. What is not in balance? What have I ignored? What is my body saying no to? Without these questions, the stresses responsible for our lack of balance will remain hidden. Even more fundamentally, not posing those questions is itself a source of stress. First, “positive thinking” is based on an unconscious belief that we are not strong enough to handle reality. Allowing this fear to dominate engenders a state of childhood apprehension. Whether or not the apprehension is conscious, it is a state of stress. Second, lack of essential information about ourselves and our situation is one of the major sources of stress and one of the potent activators of the hypothalamicpituitary-adrenal (HPA) stress response. Third, stress wanes as independent, autonomous control increases. One cannot be autonomous as long as one is driven by relationship dynamics, by guilt or attachment needs, by hunger for success, by the fear of the boss or by the fear of boredom. The reason is simple: autonomy is impossible as long as one is driven by anything. Like a leaf blown by the wind, the driven person is controlled by forces more powerful than he is. His autonomous will is not engaged, even if he believes that he has “chosen” his stressed lifestyle and even if he enjoys his activities. The choices he makes are attached to invisible strings. He is still unable to say no, even if it is only to his own drivenness. When he finally wakes up, he shakes his head, Pinocchio-like, and says, “How foolish I was when I was a puppet.

About two weeks later, on September 10, 2005, O’Kelly died of a pulmonary embolism. What O’Kelly realized, in the shadow of his final days, was the extraordinary power of a moment. He wrote: I experienced more Perfect Moments and Perfect Days in two weeks than I had in the last five years, or than I probably would have in the next five years, had my life continued the way it was going before my diagnosis. Look at your own calendar. Do you see Perfect Days ahead? Or could they be hidden and you have to find a way to unlock them? If I told you to aim to create 30 Perfect Days, could you? How long would it take? Thirty days? Six months? Ten years? Never? I felt like I was living a week in a day, a month in a week, a year in a month. Now, take a second look at the beginning of O’Kelly’s memoir, especially those final two words: “I was blessed. I was told I had three months to live.” That opportunity to live was why he felt blessed. Shouldn’t we share his zeal for moments that matter? We may have more time to live than he did, but should that be a reason to put them off? This is the great trap of life: One day rolls into the next, and a year goes by, and we still haven’t had that conversation we always meant to have. Still haven’t created that peak moment for our students. Still haven’t seen the northern lights. We walk a flatland that could have been a mountain range. It’s not easy to snap out of this tendency. It took a terminal illness for Gene O’Kelly to do it. What would it take to motivate you to create a Perfect Moment?

Typically, all it takes is a single life stressor to push one over the edge. It can be any devastating event, really—a car accident, job loss, bankruptcy, a terminal diagnosis, a child’s drowning . . . Stressors like those can create considerable challenges for a mentally healthy person. But when fate inflicts that kind of pressure on someone who’s already dangerously unbalanced . . . well, that’s how killers are born.

Yet any statement that starts with “Well, at least…” diminishes the distress and comes across as a lack of caring—or even as a kind of one-upmanship. When I first meet people who are adjusting to a terminal diagnosis, I never try to diminish their emotions. “Yes, this is terrible news and it’s very, very sad,” I say. “You don’t need to make excuses for the way you feel. You have a right to feel this way.” These words identify and recognize the struggle the dying person and family are going through. Validation is one of the first and most important tools for opening a different door.

To start with, a person is considered ‘cured of cancer’ if they don’t die within five years of diagnosis.

God’s ownership and sovereignty offer a life-changing and freeing perspective when the house is robbed (or burns to the ground), the car is totaled, the laptop computer is stolen . . . or the diagnosis is terminal cancer.

After his terminal diagnosis, Phin dropped out of society. He left his job, because it was meaningless to work when you’ve been given a death sentence. He left his fiancée, because he wanted to spare her the torture of watching him die. Since he had no hope for the future, he began to live day by day. Sort of like a dog. That’s not a negative comparison. Dogs live in the moment. They don’t think. They don’t dwell on the future. They exist to meet their base needs. Eating. Sleeping. Breeding. Surviving. No worries. No regrets. Minimize effort, maximize pleasure.

hospice care? Some of the services are as follows: Home visits by specialty trained hospice nurses and Medical Director Pain management and symptom control Personal hygiene care from certified home health aides All medications related to the terminal diagnosis All specialized therapies required for the terminal diagnosis Psychosocial, spiritual, and grief support services Volunteers as requested

It’s a cliché question to ask, What would I change about my life if the doctor told me I had cancer? After our answer, we inevitably comfort ourselves with the same insidious lie: Well, thank God I don’t have cancer. But we do. The diagnosis is terminal for all of us.

Few I have met have actually had a ‘last year.’ Most had only a ‘last’ month or two, a few weeks or days, or a few seconds. To have a whole year to examine one’s life consciously in the context of approaching death is almost unique in the human experience. And it gives a person the power to heal that which remains unloved and unloving. But why wait for a terminal diagnosis before opening to the potential grace and wonder of this living moment. No one can afford to put this work off any longer, because almost no one knows the day on which the last year begins.

Making his terminal list is the equivalent of a stage-four cancer diagnosis. You’re going to die. It’s just a question of when.

It's not even as if she had been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Well, Alzheimer's ultimately is terminal and she would eventually die from it. But, someday, not today. In some ways, I thought that it would have been easier to digest the diagnosis of a terminal illness. At least then we would have had an end in sight. Somewhere to go from there. Closure. Alzheimer's is like being sentenced to life in prison for a crime you didn't commit. Only you wake up each morning forgetting where you are and why you're there. So, you just sit and wait for the disease to take hold of your mind and control of your life.

The whole question of meaning is central to the approach of the NYU therapists,* and is perhaps especially helpful in understanding the experience of the cancer patients on psilocybin. For many of these patients, a diagnosis of terminal cancer constitutes, among other things, a crisis of meaning. Why me? Why have I been singled out for this fate? Is there any sense to life and the universe? Under the weight of this existential crisis, one’s horizon shrinks, one’s emotional repertoire contracts, and one’s focus narrows as the mind turns in on itself, shutting out the world. Loops of rumination and worry come to occupy more of one’s mental time and space, reinforcing habits of thought it becomes ever more difficult to escape.

Yet after my diagnosis and despite my hunch about the disease’s fatality, I did undergo all the operations, therapies, and interventions specialists advised. Given my love of life and of the people in my life, it seemed wrong simply to submit to the cancer’s inevitable progress, to succumb passively and helplessly to the determinism of a preordained death. I had to embark on doing what could be done against the disease—even if, even though it would eventually terminate my existence. To treasure the gift of life and the people in my life, I wanted to take responsibility for dealing with a condition admittedly beyond my control. Like many people with cancer, I sought to cultivate acceptance while consulting and following the advice of medical specialists.

There’s nothing like a terminal illness to wake people up. But here’s the thing: you already have a terminal diagnosis. We all do! As the writer Edmund Wilson put it, “Death is one prophecy that never fails.” Every person is born with a death sentence. Each second that passes by is one you’ll never get back.

Completed studies suggest that psilocybin—or rather the mystical state of consciousness that psilocybin occasions—may be useful in treating both addiction (a pilot study in smoking cessation achieved an 80 percent success rate, which is unprecedented) and the existential distress that often debilitates people facing a terminal diagnosis. When we last met, Griffiths was about to submit an article reporting striking results in the lab’s trial using psilocybin to treat the anxiety and depression of cancer patients; the study found one of the largest treatment effects ever demonstrated for a psychiatric intervention. The majority of volunteers who had a mystical experience reported that their fear of death had either greatly diminished or completely disappeared.

Sounds like a plan. Just have one thing to do first.” Jessie looked my way. “What’s that?” I asked, sipping my water. “Black-tie affair, a thousand dollars a plate, and the rich and famous in attendance. We can’t go in there looking like FBI agents.” Jessie put her hand on my shoulder, her face grave, like a doctor about to deliver a terminal diagnosis. “Brace yourself, Harmony. We have to find . . . dresses.

Somewhere, today, someone did not wake up. Someone lost a loved one. People are wondering where they will lay their head. Someone lost their job and does not know how they will feed their family. A man, woman or child just received a terminal diagnosis. An entire village has been leveled by bombs. A child has been orphaned. I can go on, but you understand. Perspective. If you can't show love, at least do not interfere in the lives of people who do. Stay positive beautiful people!

Somewhere, today, someone did not wake up. Someone lost a loved one. People are wondering where they will lay their head. Someone lost their job and does not know how they will feed their family. A man, woman or child just received a terminal diagnosis. An entire village has been leveled by bombs. A child has been orphaned. I can go on, but you understand. Perspective. If you can't show love, at least do not interfere in the lives of people who do.

Being fired is the pits, ranking right up there with infidelity in its brutalizing effect. The ego recoils and one’s self-image is punctured like a tire by a nail. In the weeks since I’d been terminated, I’d gone through all the stages one suffers at the diagnosis of a soon-to-be-fatal disease: anger, denial, bargaining, drunkenness, foul language, head colds, rude hand gestures, anxiety, and eating disorders of sudden onset.

There is pain and suffering in this world, but there is also joy, and not just suffering here and joy there, but suffering and joy in the very same place.