My customary optimism allowed me to believe that there were just a few stray cancer cells inside
me that would require minimal intervention. So for a short while I considered not telling anyone about
the diagnosis until after everything was over, whatever that “everything� was going to be. With
my parents and eight brothers and sisters spread across the map as far away as Hong Kong, I didnâ
€™t want them all worrying so far away from me. I remembered reading stories of people who had
done that, gone through treatment, lost hair, missed work, gotten sick and never told anyone they
had cancer. I tossed the idea around in my head for a while, then decided it was impractical for many
reasons, not the least of which was that I was going to need more surgery and someone would have
to pick me up from the hospital.
Finally I decided the logical person to tell was my sister Brigid in New Orleans. She was two
years younger than me and had been a nurse for more than fifteen years. She used to work in an
oncology unit so I figured she would be able to handle the news. By the time we spoke, I had
developed a very low-key explanation.
“Listen,� I said, after some preliminary chatter, “they found a little cancer in the tissue they
took out. It’s probably nothing, but they’re going to need to do some more surgery to find
out the extent of it.�
Brigid was speechless at first. Eventually my casual manner reassured her, and, like me, she
certainly wanted to believe that it wasn’t anything serious. I told her I was not going to tell
anyone else in the family until I knew more about what I was dealing with.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?� she wondered. “How can you keep it from
everyone?�
Against her better judgment she agreed not to say anything, and decided to rearrange an
upcoming visit for whenever my surgery was scheduled.
Tuesday morning I reported to the Cambridge courthouse, wondering what I would do if they did
impanel me on a jury The last time I’d been called to perform my civic duty, I spent three weeks
on a jury, and up until the previous Thursday, I’d been thinking that jury duty was a great
inconvenience. Now I found a certain dark humor in the fact that I had a very good reason for getting
out of jury duty, but would have preferred to be able to serve. If they did try to seat me, could I
explain to a judge my reason for not being able to serve, that I had an appointment with my surgeon
the next day to decide on a course of treatment for my cancer? It seemed too personal a subject
matter to share with a stranger. And what if they thought I was making it up as an excuse to get out
of serving? As it happened, they didn’t call my group to serve, and we were released from the
courthouse around noon.
I saw Dr. Friedman the next day and he wanted to know how I was doing.
“Well, I’ve decided I need to take good care of myself while I’m getting whatever
treatment is necessary to deal with this thing. So I’m going over to the gym to work with a
trainer, and I’ll take some time to work on my writing, and maybe I’ll take some voice
lessons - I’ve been wanting to do that for a while. So I guess I’m either fine, or totally
delusional about what this involves.�
“You’re fine,� he said with a laugh.
We decided to go ahead with a second lumpectomy, which he scheduled for April 17, three
weeks away. This operation would take a bit longer than the first one, because in addition to
removing more breast tissue he would need to remove lymph nodes from under my left arm. Lymph
node invasion was an indication of whether the cancer had spread and the procedure was called the
axcillary node excision, which I dutifully wrote down in my little notebook that was now filling up with
all kinds of notes and questions.
Then I had to figure out what to tell my staff. I was Associate Dean at the Fletcher School of Law
and Diplomacy at Tufts University, where I was responsible for all financial and administrative
matters. I knew I would be out of the office for a while for the surgery and would need to explain my
absence, so I carefully considered those people to whom I told the news. After swearing her to
secrecy, I told the news to my Director of Administrative Services, who had worked with me since
my arrival fifteen years earlier.
She was a tough, unflappable person, but I managed to reduce her to tears in about two minutes.
True to form however, she made it absolutely clear that I was going to triumph over this even if she
had to drag me through it herself, and it was easy to picture her doing just that.
Easter weekend was next, and I began it in a graveyard. Several weeks earlier my friend Nancy
and I had signed up for a tour of Mt. Auburn Cemetery nearby in Cambridge. It was a historic site,
with many famous people buried there, and a beautiful place where people walked and went bird
watching. Nancy was sick that morning so I went along by myself.
About 30 minutes into the tour I looked around and wondered, “What the hell am I doing in a
place full of dead people?� My anxiety level jumped way up and I decided I’d better go
home. Just then I heard someone call my name and I looked around to see one of my students
walking by with his fiancée and parents. We chatted for a few minutes and I regained my balance.
Easter Sunday I went to Mass at the campus chapel. Another student, a Catholic priest, was
saying the Mass, and I figured I needed all the divine intervention I could get. When Father John
asked if there were others for whom we should be praying, I whispered “me, Lord, oh yes, me.â
€� Then I went home and cooked Easter dinner for a dozen people and never said a word to
anyone.