The utilization of excessive denial toward the fact that a disease is incurable can jeopardize one's time and quality of life. Denial alienates its victims from family and friends. While the patient, or conversely, his relative, continually galavants across the country in search of a miracle drug or pretends the truth shall not come to pass, lost days can never again be regained. The feeling of hope afforded by such futile excursions and mental conjurings is, I believe, less beneficial than are the quiet and intimate interludes which might have taken their place. The longer one avoids the unfaltering truthfulness of such a situation, the less time he has to enjoy his remaining days in a "normal" fashion. Unlike certain studies on illness and death, I cannot feel that denial is parallel to hope, nor can I think of the need for hope as a lack of acceptance. As I soon discovered, self-absorption in a traumatic illness eventually becomes monotonous, and one will naturally turn his mind to encompass other interests. This is perhaps more prominent with extended illness, as the patient and his family pursue routine activities while a "lack" of symptoms permits. Although cancer is definitely part of my life, it is not my whole life. While I have never thought a cure was likely to be discovered, I know there are many involved in cancer research; thus, as I live day to day, a ray of hope shines through a door which is not completely closed. Hope injects an element of pleasure in lives which would otherwise be stagnant reflections of death itself. While there is yet a chance to survive, and discomfort is not the primary essence of each day, one tends to think of life; it is all we, as humans, truly know. Luckily my family and better friends did not avoid my problem. There were times when we felt pressed to talk, and let go of the tears which were usually held at bay throughout the day. Disappointment and faded dreams stabbed my father through the heart, and he lamented the many sadnesses with an angry vengeance. Mom's aching for that which could not be often liquified into tears. Norm, on one of our walks, would blandly state, "No luck at all . . ." The need to speak, and the responsibility to listen, alternated between us, and strengthened our relationships; the patient is not the only one in need of a tireless ear. I had to be able to be free to talk and joke of my illness, not hide its existence in the corner of my mind. It was part of my life, becoming as natural as eating and sleeping. Had I been forced to conceal my feelings my life would have been one of loneliness and despair; I would only have been what people wanted to see... an image, not a real person.