Another reaction to a dreaded diagnosis is what I would call "a feeling of desperation" by the relatives. Flooded by the reality that a family member may soon die, a relative may override his usual rationality by playing doctor and assuming what is best for the patient. This type of behavior is understandable; often a person who loves another will attempt to do all that is within his capabilities to comfort the sick. Through fulfilling his own emotional needs, the relative is then better able to cope with the illness, for he feels he has not simply watched his loved one fade away.
The relative's source of emotional comfort may lie in the steady pursuit of all hopeful treatment, reading any related publications on the disease spanning diet strategies to mega-dosages of vitamins as a potential cure, or perhaps arranging prayer sessions to pray the disease away. When one boasts an array of caring friends and relatives, the suggestions fly; it is quite a compliment and should be viewed as such. The patient, however, should not feel pressed by these informative offerings, and always remember that he has the right to decline their pursuit.
In dealing with an over-zealous relative, it is imperative that a patient communicates his desires to the relative in a manner that will accommodate and acknowledge the concern, yet enable him to follow his own needs. Everyone has a right to decide that which is best for his emotional well-being, and to assume that an individual's needs are identical to one's own is, indeed, a great folly and disservice to the other.
When a person makes choices for another without first consulting him, it is a direct violation of personal freedom; reactions to this type of treatment vary. A generally meek person may feel obliged to abide by his captor's urgings, either through fear of opposition or an indisposition to openly hurt, an act derived, supposedly, of pure concern. This type of person is quite vulnerable unless his relatives are protective of his wishes and do not extend their boundaries when decisions must be made through making personal demands. When a plan is devised, fully knowing both the quiet disposition of the patient and the fact that the plan in question would prove to have a disagreeable impact on him, the enactment of such a plan would be nothing short of overt maliciousness.
Another reaction to this decision-making effort may be fury, with the patient recklessly attacking the relative's "good intentions." Although anger is justifiable in such situations wherein the patient's desires were completely overlooked, I feel that wrath is punishment more harsh than the over-wrought relative merits. One might argue that if the relative truly had the patient's well-being in mind, he would have inquired into his wishes before enacting his own. Though basically true the argument cannot stand alone without also expressing the necessity for the patient to accept the chaotic mental states possessed by his relatives as a natural reaction to their own sorrow. Anger demeans its subject's need to retain hope, whereas a thoughtful explanation will yield a greater understanding of the entire situation as faced by all those concerned.
Because I value the ability to choose the routes which I wish my life to follow, I have similarly felt it is only fair to allow others that freedom as well; while I may have voiced an opinion toward a subject concerning someone other than myself, I would never feel it was acceptable behavior for me to take any action toward the fulfillment of that opinion. My oldest brother was different from myself in this regard, as the following story will demonstrate.
Often Todd would take issues into his own hands, apparently feeling that his way was undoubtedly THE way. It was virtually impossible to illustrate another viewpoint. Consequently when I received the diagnosis that I had cancer once again, the dark cloud which fell over the family receded somewhat after my resolution to forgo chemotherapy, yet Todd, who lived some distance away from the immediate family, was unfortunately less informed as to my generally good state of health at the present time and proceeded to think only of my rapid demise. Telephones, unhappily, cannot relate the entire picture of one's health; had he been able to actually see for himself that I was not fading away with each passing moment, I'm sure the turn of events would have been different. As it was, however, he decided we were not preparing ourselves for the onslaught of my disease, and unbeknownst to us, made an appointment for us to speak with the director of the "family hospice" service at the local hospital.
On Thanksgiving weekend everyone came home. I was in immensely good spirits, as I felt so very fortunate to be out of the hospital and with those I loved. Moreover, I was happy with my decisions and glad to feel physically well so soon after the exploratory surgery; I knew my health would not decline before the holidays, and in this I found contentment.
In the afternoon I dismissed myself from the festivities so that I could rest. Shortly after my disappearance, Todd and his wife found their way upstairs to my room and asked if they could talk to me. They entered and we discussed my health; I was glad to answer any questions which might have been forgotten, or otherwise left unanswered. They then gave me several books, two of which concerned the topic of death, namely, "On Death and Dying," and "On Dying With Dignity." Todd quickly made the statement that I didn't have to read them if I didn't want to, slightly embarrassed by the whole affair. I wasn't offended by the gifts, but thought them to be rather humorous. I thanked Todd nevertheless, acknowledging that many people have benefited from reading those books. I further said that although I felt in no need of assistance with regard to my handling the disease and eventual death, I would perhaps read the books simply to see what the doctors had to say about their keen observances of the dying.
Before our discussion had come to a close my mother came upstairs to join the group. Todd tried to conceal the books he'd given to me. I wondered about his effort of secrecy; did he have second thoughts as to the appropriateness of the gift, or was he concerned about Mom's reaction? I once again squelched a smile, noting how death is a characteristically dismal and uncomfortable subject; we all made our way to the main floor.