Denial

I was thinking today how lucky I am that I’ve been graced with a wonderful weapon I can use to ward off some of my life’s more fearsome realities or even some of its minor irritants.

I’m talking about denial.

Denial sometimes gets a bum rap. It’s treated like a rowdy, unwelcome guest at a church picnic. It’s talked about as if it’s some kind of a sneaky trick our mind plays on us to keep us from facing something we need to face or taking some action we need to take. And sometimes it is. It’s what keeps alcoholics drinking, most of them, until they die.

But sometimes denial is just what the doctor ordered. Sometimes it truly helps.

I, for one, love it.

Denial is what makes it possible for me to function, some days. It’s what convinces me, often, that I’m not really sick. It’s what makes it possible for me to go hours, sometimes, without thinking about the damn thing inside me that wants me dead. It makes it possible, as goofy as it is, to believe, sometimes, that I’m going to be okay. That somehow a miracle will happen or the oncologist will tell me there’s a new cure, guaranteed to work overnight.

Denial also helps my family and my friends. Denial is what makes it possible for them to smile when they see me, to talk about next year, the year after that, to talk to me as if there’s nothing wrong. This is what makes it possible for them not to feel fear or sorrow or loss. The other day, my mother – who is in the tenth decade of her life – said something about me going to Ireland to meet relatives I’ve never met. She said maybe I’d be able to do it next year.

I was cruel. I should have agreed and kept my mouth shut. But I can’t always do that. "Mom," I said, "do you not know what’s going on with me?" As soon as I said it, I wished I could somehow suck the words back into my mouth.

She was quiet for a minute. "Yes", she said. "I know exactly what’s going on with you. I just don’t want to think about it."

Denial is what lets her not think about it and for that it’s good and welcome. And I don’t think I really have the right to take that from her.

As for myself, I wish I could stay in denial all the time. That I didn’t know what’s going on with me. But I can’t. Usually, I’m snapped out of denial when someone well- meaning, like my mother, talks about making plans for a future I probably won’t enjoy. Or I’m brought back to reality when someone asks me how I am. The someone could be ringing up my purchases at the grocery store or a friend or even my wife. As soon as I hear the words, any denial I’m enjoying departs.

"I’m okay," I say, often. "I’m hanging in there." But sometimes I can’t say that. Sometimes I say I feel like crap because I have cancer. And if I’m really feeling lousy or if I’m angry or just sick of being sick, I tell the questioner the truth. "I’m dying," I say. "How’s it going for you?"