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Cancer and Viktor Frankl
How a Holocaust survivor helped me survive
“We need to get you into surgery right away,” the surgeon said. He talked fast, his tone conveying urgency.
“Wait a minute…” I tried to interrupt.
“Then chemo and radiation,” he continued. “I can schedule the surgery in a few days.”
“But…” I tried again.
“We need to remove both your breasts, to be safe,” he went on.
Again I opened my mouth, again he ignored me.
“Will you shut up and let her speak!” yelled my husband.
The doctor looked stunned.
“You haven’t told me about this disease,” I said, after a grateful glance at my husband. “I need more information if I’m to make a decision.”
If possible, the surgeon looked even more astonished. I suppose he was used to people doing what he told them.
That’s not the way I roll. I never read the directions when I put something together. I don’t follow guide books when I travel. And when it comes to something as important as my health… I need to make my own decisions.
“You have inflammatory breast disease,” the surgeon said, as if that explained everything.
