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Fait accompli
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On a recent long flight with a lay over and delayed plane, I was speaking with another oncologist about what this job does to your perception of life.
Prior to being an oncologist, I had some vague sense that life is precious and things can rapidly change (you can get in a car accident or a plane crash), but my perception of that risk to me was quite low. Perhaps it was time passing and me getting older — and, arguably, wiser — but I attribute my current feelings to being an oncologist. I have seen patients with cancer so ludicrously unfair that it hurts your brain even to think about why or how they got cancer. I now feel that life is akin to a thin spider web strand blowing in the breeze between two tall and not very close–together buildings.
Sometimes the breeze turns into a tornado or just a stiff wind and — poof! — that strand is gone forever. This changed perspective is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I take very little for granted anymore — I literally tally my good luck and good fortune every night before I go to bed and feel tremendous gratitude for every good day. However, I also feel as though the proverbial "other shoe" could drop at any time — any slight pain or weight loss or just off-day and I'm sure it's my turn for "The Big C". I have vivid daydreams about my children's life without me. It's a hell of a way to live life. Although I hope and I pray for a long and healthy life, I know better than to assume that is my life's fait accompli.