A story of quiet resolve in the face of illness
Tima Miroshnichenko from Pexels“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”
― Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
Looking back at it now, I think I always knew something was wrong. There was a voice I didn’t want to listen to. It was soft and inconvenient. The dull pain in my stomach was unrelenting for the past six months. It was a reminder of a very grim possibility.
I had lost a lot of weight, which I optimistically attributed to quitting alcohol. Eventually, I ran out of convenient excuses for my symptoms. I found my nerve and forced my doctor to send me for a colonoscopy.
On the 9th of November 2023, I was sitting in a waiting room in a hospital gown with my ass exposed. A nurse came in and gave me a big smile. To this day, I like to believe it was genuine.
I was politely led into the procedure room and asked to lie on my side on the table. I stared at the wall in front of me, determined not to take my eyes off a small crack that had formed in one of the tiles.
Anyone who has gone through a procedure like this knows how comically undignified it can be. I still smile when I think about it today. A stranger had just put a suspicious object in my rectum. They were chatting with me as if nothing had happened.
While I lay there explaining what I did for a living, I noticed that the doctor had suddenly become silent. I did not ask her why. I did not want to know why. The room grew silent except for the occasional beeping of a monitor.
“Mr. Hopper, I’m sorry to inform you, but you have colon cancer.” Those words flipped a switch and my mind went completely blank. The sentence hung in the air, suspended. She asked me if I have colon cancer in my family. I tried to respond, but no words came out.
I was rolled back into the waiting room. Mia, my wife, was waiting for me there. Her expression changed when she saw mine. I gave her the news, and she immediately burst into tears. Deep down, I think she also always knew.
I held her hand and cried a little as well. Even though I had just been given terrible news, I treasure this memory. It was a raw, reflexive reaction. We realised what we meant to each other. She was the only person in the world.
After the initial diagnosis, the next step was determining what stage the cancer was at. This involved a week’s worth of blood tests and scans. If the cancer had spread to other organs from my large intestine, there was very little they could do for me. If it didn’t spread, they could remove the tumour. This would give me a very good chance of surviving.
At the end of the week, I had a doctor’s appointment where he would tell me what stage the cancer was. Basically, he was going to tell me if I was going to live or die.
Tima Miroshnichenko from Pexels
During this time, for some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about a scene in a movie I had watched. A group of soldiers got caught while trying to assassinate Hitler. They were sentenced to death by firing squad. In the scene, when facing the firing squad, some of the soldiers started crying, cowering as they stood there nearing their fate.
Some soldiers, however, stood up straight. They took turns looking each firing squad member in the eye and had a defiant expression on their face.
I always wondered which of the soldiers I would be if I was in their situation. Would I wince or would I sneer?
We arrived 40 minutes too early for the doctor’s appointment. Those were the 40 most terrifying minutes of my life. I kept thinking about those soldiers.
I decided then and there that if the doctor delivered a grim diagnosis, I would absorb it quietly. I would not flinch. I would not shake. I would look the firing squad dead in the eye. I couldn’t control what was going to happen to me, but I could control how I reacted to it.
If my time had come, I would bow out with grace and poise. The greatest victory over death, is to meet it with a smile.
The doctor came out of his office and called my name. He had a vacant expression on his face. I didn’t know if this was a good or bad thing. We sat down in his office. “The cancer has not spread, you’re going to be ok.” My whole body went limp. It felt like it was collapsing onto itself. Prayer and anxiety had been the only things holding it together.
It was my wife’s birthday that day. On the train home, we sat in silence. Exhausted. Happy.
The Firing Squad: When Metaphor Meets Reality was originally published in Invisible Illness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.