My dog Snickers is a rescue.
We adopted her 9 years ago.
I was pleasantly surprised that Snickers liked to play fetch, knew how to walk on a leash and was housebroken.
Her not-so-good qualities were all fear based. She’s a runner who’s scared of people, dogs and loud noises. The first week I had her, she ran away 3 times.
- She heard the neighbor’s dog bark and was so terrified she scurried under our fence and took off down the street. I caught her many blocks away.
- When I opened the door to get the paper she shot out between my legs and down the street. I chased her in my bare feet for blocks before my neighbor caught her.
- Some kids screaming surprised her and she bolted so quickly that she pulled the leash out of my hand. She ran dragging the leash behind her all the way home.
Over time, she eventually learned to trust me. She’s still scared of dogs, strangers and loud noises but she no longer runs away from me.
I figure something in her past happened that made her afraid and she’ll never get entirely over it. She’s damaged goods.
Like Snickers, I too am damaged goods
I was raised in a chaotic environment that was filled with sudden, unexpected upheavals.
- My parents got divorced, remarried to each other a year later, then divorced a second time before I was 6. After that my Dad moved far away and I only saw him twice in the next 10 years.
- We moved from my small hometown where all my family and friends lived to a big city where everyone was a stranger and everything was different.
- My mother remarried. My stepfather was occasionally nice but more often was an abusive lunatic.
- Over the next 10 years, my stepfather moved 21 of his “children” and 4 of his “exes” into our home. Some stayed for weeks, some for months and some for years.
- I switched schools 5 times.
- We moved 6 times. After most moves, I never saw my old friends again.
I don’t regret my past. Nor am I’m dwelling on it or looking for pity. Despite these challenges (or perhaps due to them), my life has been pretty good and I turned out OK.
But, like Snickers, my thinking has been warped by my experiences.
I always plan for the worst case scenario. I expect things will go badly. I expect to be disappointed. When there are odds, I count on being on the losing end.
Intellectually, I know the worst doesn’t always happen. But it doesn’t seem to matter.
That’s just how I am wired.
I don’t think of myself as a “glass half full” type of guy. I’m more of a “the glass will probably leak or get spilled soon regardless of how full it is so let’s be ready for it.”
When it goes better than that, I’m pleasantly surprised.
Sometimes, viewing the world from this perspective has been effective.
In business, planning for worst case scenarios meant I was ready for any contingency.
- Presentations went flawlessly. Even when the projector didn’t work, my engineer didn’t show or traffic was bad.
- I was rarely surprised by a customer who had a problem with my employee, my product or my company. I expected this.
- When an employee quit out of the blue, I usually had backup candidates in the hiring queue.
Other times, it’s created unnecessary worry and effort.
- Most of the terrible things I’ve imagined have never come true.
- I thought I’d be fired from every job I ever had.
- I drive my wife crazy sometimes.
Since my wife’s lung cancer diagnosis my worst case scenario planning has been in overdrive.
I’ve been doing a lot of research online. I focus primarily on major websites: American Cancer Society, National Institute of Health, PubMed and the Mayo Clinic.
I’ve studied statistics on life expectancy and quality of life, treatment options, results of studies, what happens when treatments stop working, etc.
The statistics are grim.
Even worse has been my wife’s condition. After having surgery which was supposed to “cure” her, we learned that her cancer metastasized to at least two places. Instead of being Stage 2 and curable, it’s now Stage 4 and terminal.
This means the cancer is no longer curable. It will eventually kill her.
I’ve thought a lot about what that will mean for Ellen, me and our son.
When we met with my wife’s oncologist last week I had two pages of questions for him.
All of my questions were focused on my wife’s chances, her expected quality of life, the side effects of the treatments and the statistics I read. I told the doctor that we knew this was terminal. I asked about hospice. I asked “what-if” questions about additional metastases, treatments and other unknowns.
The oncologist said that her cancer is incurable but not untreatable. He wants to restart chemo after radiation because it will improve the quality of her life and extend her life.
He said,
“I don’t want to talk about all of the terrible things that “might happen’. We’re going to treat what is in front of us today.
The treatment we are doing right now is working. We found the tumor causing your wife’s back pain, started treating it immediately and she’s visibly better this week.
We are going to treat this based on science – not on emotions, fears or what-if scenarios.”
He also told me that hospice is for people who will die within 6 months. He said,
“Ellen is not dying within 6 months so hospice is not appropriate at this time.”
I left his office with more hope than when I entered.
I don’t believe in miracles. Nor do I think a positive attitude will cure lung cancer.
It’s still bad. I’m a realist and know this will not end well. It’s unlikely that my wife will be one of the small percentage of 5 year survivors.
More likely the rest of her life will be full of treatments and recoveries until she can’t take it anymore.
But for today, we have a plan, it’s currently working and my wife is feeling better.
That’s as good as it can be today.
I’m going to take the doctor’s advice and try not to focus on all of the bad things that might happen down the road.
My wife has a different perspective than me.
She grew up in a secure, stable home with few concerns.
Despite having experienced major setbacks in life (including losing both parents to cancer), she never dwells on worst case scenarios looking for impending disaster.
She always has a positive outlook. She laughs a lot and usually flashes her huge grin, no matter is happening around her (or to her).
She’s said to me, “There’s no point in dwelling on the fact that Lung Cancer is going to kill me. How does that make anything better?”
At some point, she may choose to stop treatment, but she said, “I’m not there yet so I don’t want to think about it.”
I wish I was wired to think the way my wife and her Doctor do.