![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
intheheartTitle: pretend
Rating: PG.
Summary: She can pretend this isn't happening, if she wants.
Date: 2039
Notes: none.
She's dying.
Of course, the doctor didn't say that. The doctor was very calm, very optimistic, using words like "we'll fight it" and "beat this thing." But she knows how to do research as well as anyone else, and she's seen words like "silent killer" and "eleven percent survival rate."
She's also seen words like "consistently under- or misdiagnosed," but she isn't letting herself think about that for now. She doesn't know how to feel about it yet.
The irony of it all is that she feels fine, for a woman in her late seventies-- no pain, no indigestion, no intestinal problems. She does feel a little full in the stomach, a little rounder around the waist, but that's almost a pleasant feeling-- it reminds her of her pregnancies, of those nebulous, joyful months between testing positive and starting to show.
Pregnancy is actually a rather good metaphor, if a deeply macabre one. A tumor is a kind of life, though a twisted and wrong one, her body using itself up to sustain something that can't live without her. It even started in her ovaries, as far as the doctor can tell. Of course, her husband didn't have anything to do with it; that's one major difference. Beyond the obvious.
Her husband. God. How is she ever going to tell her husband?
It won't be very long before she'll have no choice. She's done her research, huddled in the library between the doctor's office and her home, and she saw the fear at the back of the doctor's eyes even as he reassured her, even as he told her there's no reason to panic yet. She has weeks, she supposes. Months, if she's careful, and has a lot of chemotherapy. Years, if she's very, very lucky, but not many of them. No, it won't be very long at all.
She's catastrophizing, of course, assuming that she really does have it, that it really has spread as far as the doctor thinks. There must be surgery, he said, before they can be sure. Nothing major, a simple exploratory procedure with same-day release, so she doesn't have to tell anyone, if she doesn't want to. She can pretend she's fine, if she wants. She can pretend this isn't happening.
And maybe it isn't. Maybe the doctor is wrong. Maybe she's just old.
She knows that's not true. She knows she's dying.
"How did your appointment go?" her husband asks, when she gets home. His voice is calm, and he hasn't looked up from his book; he's asking because he thinks he should ask. He doesn't have any idea.
She knows she's dying.
"It went fine," she tells him, and changes the subject.
Rating: PG.
Summary: She can pretend this isn't happening, if she wants.
Date: 2039
Notes: none.
She's dying.
Of course, the doctor didn't say that. The doctor was very calm, very optimistic, using words like "we'll fight it" and "beat this thing." But she knows how to do research as well as anyone else, and she's seen words like "silent killer" and "eleven percent survival rate."
She's also seen words like "consistently under- or misdiagnosed," but she isn't letting herself think about that for now. She doesn't know how to feel about it yet.
The irony of it all is that she feels fine, for a woman in her late seventies-- no pain, no indigestion, no intestinal problems. She does feel a little full in the stomach, a little rounder around the waist, but that's almost a pleasant feeling-- it reminds her of her pregnancies, of those nebulous, joyful months between testing positive and starting to show.
Pregnancy is actually a rather good metaphor, if a deeply macabre one. A tumor is a kind of life, though a twisted and wrong one, her body using itself up to sustain something that can't live without her. It even started in her ovaries, as far as the doctor can tell. Of course, her husband didn't have anything to do with it; that's one major difference. Beyond the obvious.
Her husband. God. How is she ever going to tell her husband?
It won't be very long before she'll have no choice. She's done her research, huddled in the library between the doctor's office and her home, and she saw the fear at the back of the doctor's eyes even as he reassured her, even as he told her there's no reason to panic yet. She has weeks, she supposes. Months, if she's careful, and has a lot of chemotherapy. Years, if she's very, very lucky, but not many of them. No, it won't be very long at all.
She's catastrophizing, of course, assuming that she really does have it, that it really has spread as far as the doctor thinks. There must be surgery, he said, before they can be sure. Nothing major, a simple exploratory procedure with same-day release, so she doesn't have to tell anyone, if she doesn't want to. She can pretend she's fine, if she wants. She can pretend this isn't happening.
And maybe it isn't. Maybe the doctor is wrong. Maybe she's just old.
She knows that's not true. She knows she's dying.
"How did your appointment go?" her husband asks, when she gets home. His voice is calm, and he hasn't looked up from his book; he's asking because he thinks he should ask. He doesn't have any idea.
She knows she's dying.
"It went fine," she tells him, and changes the subject.
