Simmering Anger
In late January, my husband received a diagnosis of colorectal cancer. As a registered nurse, I grappled with conflicting emotions. While I showed him love and support, deep down, anger simmered within me. You see, I had persistently urged him to undergo annual checkups, but he consistently brushed off my concerns. Even when his employer compelled him to visit the doctor, he remained tight-lipped about any symptoms. I sensed something was amiss, yet my overtures were met with resistance.
His dismissive statements echoed in my mind:
- “I’m okay, nothing is wrong with me.”
- “Leave me alone.”
Our discussions escalated into heated exchanges about his health. Eventually, he became a direct hospital admission from radiology due to a tumor obstructing his colon. The radiologist contacted me by phone, requesting our doctor’s name. After providing the information, I inquired, “What’s the issue?” His callous response hit me like a blow: “It’s cancer — a sizable tumor.” The abruptness stung.
Now, I had the task of breaking this news to my husband and preparing him for hospital admission. Surprisingly, he handled it better than expected. He agreed, but with a caveat: “I need to do something before we head to the hospital.” His words left me astonished. He promised to meet me at home in an hour.
Yet, beneath my concern lay anger. Anger at what this diagnosis meant — for me, our family, and him. A tumor of such magnitude indicated a late-stage discovery. As his wife and a registered nurse, I grappled with the reality that my husband had become a statistic.
Colorectal cancer disproportionately affects Black American men. Annually, approximately 20,000 new diagnoses occur among Black adults. Their incidence rate surpasses that of most other ethnic groups, and tragically, they are 40% more likely to succumb to the disease due to late-stage diagnoses.
