Steve Buchheit asked yesterday in comments about my prognosis.
Here’s the thing: I. Don’t. Care.
Any numbers are population means. They are valid in the aggregate, more or less, but have little or nothing to do with my my life. Unless somehow there are stats on healthy 43-year-old women who walk all the time, eat well, and have my particular combination of primary and metastatic tumors?
Yeah, I didn’t think so.
There are five-year survival numbers, but fuck them. That’s all patients, all causes of mortality, and they don’t tell me anything useful, except that not everyone dies in that timespan.
My odds of dying today are about the same as yours, possibly less if you have more urgent health problems.
My odds of dying this week are about the same as yours, too, given the same constraints.
Sure, my odds of eventually dying of colon cancer are a whole lot higher than yours, but that doesn’t say anything about “will” or “when.” Even my odds of dying in the next five years are considerably higher, but that’s probability, not certainty. And of course, when you get right down to it, we all have 100% probability of dying eventually.
I don’t have a prognosis, I have a plan. The medical part of the plan involves probably four rounds of chemo, then more scans to assess my response. At that point there will be more major decisions about surgery or more chemo, but I’m very pleased to have a way to move forward immediately. (And to have been allowed to make that decision myself after being presented with the various options.)
The personal part of the plan involves living each day as healthily and happily as I can. The tools have changed, but that’s no different than what I’ve always tried to do, what anyone tries to do. I’m not being Pollyannaish, nor am I being stupid: I have a will, I have various plans in place or underway. I could die, and I’m planning for it, but I’m also planning to live a long and happy life. (Nor, incidentally, is this bravado: I’m utterly serious.)
Coincidentally, an essay in the New York Times yesterday says much the same thing, with the wonderful added point that five-year statistics are always at least five years out of date.
Fuck cancer. Fuck the odds. I have things to do.