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medical diagnosis
[246 words]
The doctor speaks in percentages, fractions of survival and recurrence, as if my body is suddenly a math problem to be solved. Her voice carries the steady cadence of someone accustomed to delivering life-altering news between her lunch break and 3 o’clock appointment.
“45% chance of this. 60% likelihood of that. 5-year survival rates. 10-year projections.”
The numbers float above her desk like ghosts, ethereal and threatening. I nod as if I understand, as if these statistics are providing the comfort she clearly thinks they offer. I want to remind her I was never good at numbers, that I exist in metaphors and stories, in the spaces between certainties.
When she asks if I have questions, what I really want to know cannot be answered with percentages: Will I still feel like myself after? Will my wife still look at me the same way? Will people start treating me like I’m made of glass? Instead, I ask about treatment schedules and side effects – questions with answers she can actually provide.
Later, in the parking lot, I sit in my car watching people enter and exit the cancer center, each carrying their own invisible statistics. I wonder if they too feel reduced to probabilities, converted from complicated humans into simplified data points.
I am the 100% chance of someone determined to be more than her diagnosis.
The 100% chance of a woman listening while strangers discuss how much of her will remain when they’re done saving her.
Tara Hashagen lives in Hawaiʻi with her wife, Leah, where she writes about identity, personal growth and resilience. She believes in small moments with big meaning and the power of story to make us feel less alone. When not writing, she’s probably laughing at something wildly inappropriate or trying to keep plants alive in volcanic soil.
