Six years ago, I found myself seated in a wheelchair, weak and afraid, reckoning with words that would eternally mark my life as divided into “before” and “after.” Stage III Bone Marrow Cancer. The diagnosis hung like a weight in the air that I could neither lift nor escape. I was a retired Maxillofacial Trauma Surgeon who had spent more than thirty years caring for thousands of patients, mending broken bones and mangled faces. I thought I understood medicine. I thought I knew what suffering was. But nothing prepares you for that moment when you become the patient. If you are reading this now, having just been diagnosed and searching for something—anything—to make sense of what is happening to you, I want you to know: I understand that terror. I know it well.
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