The Choice

life? Or do you think I’m having this dream because it’s time to ĕnally
put the fantasy of becoming a doctor to rest?”
“What appeals to you about medicine?”
She thought before she answered. “Helping people. But also ĕnding
out what’s really going on. Finding out the truth. Finding what’s under
the surface and fixing the problem.”
“ere aren’t absolutes in life—or in medicine. As you know,
diseases can be difficult to treat. Pain, surgery, treatments, physical
changes, mood swings. And there’s no guarantee of recovery. What
has helped you live with cancer? What truths or beliefs are you using
to guide you through your illness?”
“Not to be a burden. I don’t want my pain to hurt anyone else.”
“How would you like to be remembered?”
Tears sprang into her light gray eyes. “As a good person.”
“What does ‘good’ mean to you?”
“Giving. Generous. Kind. Selfless. Doing what’s right.”
“Does a ‘good’ person ever get to complain? Or be angry?”
“Those aren’t my values.”
She reminded me of myself, before the paraplegic veteran had
brought me to an encounter with my own rage. “Anger isn’t a value,” I
told Agnes. “It’s a feeling. It doesn’t mean you’re bad. It just means
you’re alive.”
She looked skeptical.
“I’d like you to try something. An exercise. You’re going to turn
yourself inside out. Whatever you usually hold in, you’re going to get
out, and whatever you usually get rid of, you’re going to put back in.” I
took the pad of hotel stationery off the desk and handed it to her with
a pen. “Each person in your immediate family gets one sentence. I
want you to write down something you haven’t told that person. It
might be a desire or a secret or a regret—it might be something small,
like, ‘I wish you’d put your dirty socks in the laundry.’ e only rule is