The Power of Words

​It was a Wednesday in October, 1988, I had just returned from a routine visit to the National Cancer Institute (NCI) in Fredrick, MD where I’ve been going since being diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia in 1985. Part of an experimental protocol using interferon to keep the disease at bay, my blood is tested every month. When the telephone rang, I answered the call from NCI, expecting a nurse to tell me, as usual, my counts were in the normal range. Instead, the oncologist I’d seen a few hours before spoke in a serious tone of voice. No bantering as he was wont to do. “I’m sorry I have to tell you this over the phone but your test results weren’t ready before you left.”

“What?” I asked, unable to say anymore.

“Your blood counts have dropped precipitously. They’re now life-threatening. We’ll need you to return to NCI on Friday. Be prepared to stay for a few days. We need to find out what’s causing the problem.” I mumbled something incoherent about the Friday visit and hung up. I sat on the couch. Stunned. Once again I was facing death. Should I call my son who lived in California and prepare him? He was only 27, still upset by his father’s death two years ago from a malignant brain tumor. A few months before, when I told him the horrible side effects of the interferon were too much, and I was ready to stop, he begged me to stay on the medication. He wasn’t ready to be an orphan.

I decided bad news could wait until morning. Too tired to sleep, I lay in bed, wondering what I needed to do given the sudden change in my health. Who would take my cat? Was my will in order? What kind of care might I need? How long would it would take to die. What would it be like. The doctor had reminded me there was one other medication I might take but it was known to damage the liver severely so what was the point?

By the time sunlight filtered through my bedroom I felt I was dying. I wasn’t hungry but my cat was. His yowls left me no choice but to get up and feed him. I made coffee but couldn’t stand the smell or taste.

I got dressed. It was only 7:30. Too early to call the west coast. I made breakfast, took one bite of scrambled eggs, then gave them to the cat, who was delighted by the unexpected treat. I walked down to the creek and sat on a boulder, my feet dangling in the rushing water, warmed by the sun filtering through the trees.

I felt so depleted it took an unusually long time to walk back home, As I was opening the front door I heard the phone ringing. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone about my condition but I’m incapable of letting a phone ring without answering it. I sighed. Picked up the receiver. It was my oncologist. Apologizing. I had to ask him to repeat what he said several times before it sank in. They had mixed up my blood test results with another woman, also named Nancy King. My counts were fine. I was fine. He apologized profusely. I thanked him for calling.

I stood, stunned. Trying to take in the emotional roller coaster ride I’d been on. Trying to shift from thoughts of death to realizing I was, at least until the next set of blood tests, reasonably okay.
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Suddenly coffee smelled and tasted good. I was hungry. My cat, hopeful for another unexpected meal hovered, letting me know he was not pleased as he watched me eat. I walked back down to the creek and sat on the same boulder, my feet dangling in the water. I’d been fine. Then I was told I was not fine. I began to feel sick. Another phone call reversed the situation. Only words, yet my body responded to their power. Wordwounds are real.

How have you been affected by someone’s words?