Dear Dr. Waffle Cone, You Uplifting SOB:

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I understand that you couldn’t, in good conscience, proceed with my husband’s transplant because it would kill him.

I understand that the CT showed the radiation did nothing to slow or stop the progress of his cancer.

I understand that there are very few options left for chemo to treat him, and those options may not work.

I understand you do not want to take drastic measures only to have him die on your watch, in your hospital, under less-than-desirable conditions.

I understand you didn’t like telling us he had only weeks or months to live, but certainly not years.

There are a few things, however, that you do not understand.

My husband loves to prove people wrong.

He likes to nod along, listen to what you’re saying, take it all in, then go do it his way.

He’s not calling hospice.

He’s not signing on for palliative care.

He’s not done with the battle.

He’s not giving up.

He hasn’t even started.

We may not see you back at Stanford, but mark my words, he’s not leaving this planet without an actual fight.

He will find someone to give him chemo, because he loves that shit. Makes him feel better every time he gets it. Shrinks his tumors, too. (It just doesn’t last for two fucking months while you all sit around wondering what to do.)

He will find someone ready to roll with the transplant quickly after he gets the chemo instead of diddling around with a fucking schedule for weeks on end while the cancer grows back and then acting like it’s novel when it does.

And if, by some strange twist of fate, he’s wrong and you were right, he’ll flip you a high and mighty finger on his way down in thanks for your endearing support. Because, really, we understand you need to be able to sleep at night.


P.S. I forgot to ask, were you going to swing by and explain to our kids that their father had "put up a good fight" and should just go home and die? Nah? I'm guessing your kids, if you have any, are probably grown. Maybe it'd be a little easier to explain to them why you were deciding to throw in the towel. Ours aren't. You don't know that, though. You've never asked about them or met them. I understand.

P.P.S. When I picked up my purse and closed my notebook, that was a sign I was ready to leave. I didn't need you to keep talking to make yourself feel better. I needed to get the fuck out of there. So did my husband. That's why he kept cutting you off. You really needed to feel better. Glad we could be there for you. It must be hard to tell people to give up.

P.P.P.S. I'm probably just going through those stages of grief and Dr. Waffle Cone is a lovely person we'd all enjoy having over for dinner and drinks. Life of the party. You understand.