The initial reaction to a terminal illness is often that of undiluted shock, especially cases wherein the patient had demonstrated no drastic changes in health or felt no persistent pain. Perhaps the dismal news was revealed after a slight, but disconcerting health symptom; the doctor was visited with hesitant anticipation, with the hope that the abdominal protrusion was only persistent gas, or the cough was merely the stubborn remnants of last winter's cold. Although some poor souls cannot release themselves from the notion that it is "only a mistake," or "a dream," most individual's stupification will subside, allowing them to face up to the situation and deal with it as a factual absolute. Because I had sought an appointment with the doctors at Mayo Clinic of my own accord, I was prepared for any diagnosis which the test results would uncover. Noting that my stomach region appeared lop-sided I knew there was something amiss despite my seemingly good health; thus the result of the exploratory surgery was disappointing, but I cannot say it was a shock. I felt no need to question the test results or wildly seek second and third opinions. Viewing the pictures taken by the CAT Scan of my liver, I had nonchalantly asked, "Are there supposed to be spots on it like that?" Before the doctor had given an answer, something within my mind yelled, "Of course not, you idiot!" The doctor responded likewise, although considerably less profound. That which helped me deal with my verdict, coupled with my suspicion that life, for me, had been sailing along a bit too smoothly and the fact that I had cancer previously, was an unusual strength to adapt to adverse situations. From early in my childhood I was able to have the objectiveness to realize that things don't always happen to "the other guy"; actually, if something could go wrong, it probably would. If there was a log poised between two opposing banks of the creek, the odds were that I would fall off of it in crossing. In a world of "other guys" I was just one, yet that in itself proved I was immune to no adversity. Thus, instead of "why me?" my question was generally, "why not me?" I happened to be one of the cancer statistics, and I was far from alone in my plight. Mine was no easy burden, yet it was mine to deal with as best I could; wallowing in a murky pool of self-pity would accomplish nothing. When I felt a wave of pity tempting me with its utter worthlessness, I would accommodate it for a brief period and then cast it away to pause and reflect upon those whose health involved more horrid complications than my own.