The Unsent Letter: A Powerful Tool for Writing
Just days ago, I learned of the death of Geri Danzig, who battled ovarian cancer for a number of years. Geri wrote with me at The Caring Community and at Moores UCSD Cancer Center. On one occasion, I invited the group to write a letter they would never send, a letter to someone where they could speak from the heart, no matter what the emotions were, and release those feelings onto the paper. An unsent letter is a powerful tool for expressing emotions, gaining closure and insight into ourselves.
Geri addressed her letter to her oncologist, who had seen her through her diagnosis, treatment and subsequent recurrences. She had, just days before we met, received the news of yet another recurrence, and the manner in which her oncologist communicated it left her feeling somewhat hurt. Here is her letter:
“To My Oncologist” Geri Danzig, September 27, 2007
You looked haggard, weary, world worn when you opened the door to the examining room. I had slipped by your office and saw you at the computer screen, probably checking my PET/CT scan results. Or perhaps you were reviewing in your mind how you would tell me what we already knew. And so you opened the door and I noticed that you had difficulty making eye contact with me, focusing instead on conversation with my daughter, leaving it up to me to broach the subject.
I remember two weeks ago when I saw you and we discussed my probable situation. Through my tears I felt compassion for you and commented on what a tough job it must be to be the bearer of bad news.
So now I’m wondering, Doctor, did you really hold out hope for me from the beginning? Or did you always know that my advanced stage would eventually bring us to that moment when you opened the door and avoided my eyes? You seemed exhausted, and through the scrim of numbness I sensed your discomfort- or maybe sadness.
As you spoke, did you know that I became deaf and your voice slowly diffused into flat sound?
What really hurt me that day, the day I learned of the recurrence of the dreaded disease, is that you were unable to say, “I’m sorry”, or to hug me or show outward compassion. The only way I can mend this rift is to rationalize that years of being an oncologist have taken their toll on you. You have become a master-builder of walls that protect you and are perceived as keeping patients out.
Somehow in the midst of my misery and fear, I forgive you, Doctor, and have compassion for the fact that you do a job that has much heartache.
How I wanted to be one of the lucky ones who made you smile.
As Geri read her letter aloud to the group, many of us had tears in our eyes. She had spoken with such honesty and feeling. There was, however, an even more courageous outcome. At her next appointment, Geri read her letter aloud to her oncologist, who admitted he had been trying to mask his own feelings of sorrow in delivering the news of another occurence. He thanked her for her honesty--and her eloquence.
Geri lost the battle with ovarian cancer on Sunday, June 14th, 2009. She will be missed by all of us who knew her and delighted in the artistry and courageousness of her words.
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