Lethal Trajectories - Michael Conley [43]
“Great!” she said. “Let’s start by not talking about the events per se, but rather about the fears that come about as a result of the events. You know, like fear of losing something, fear of survival, fear of looking bad, fear of not getting our way—whatever specific fears you have. My guess is we’ll all be surprised at how many common fears we have. We are not alone in our fears. Who has a fear to share?”
Getting the first person to talk was always a challenge, and she was more than a little surprised when at least ten hands went up.
The emotional spigot ramped up to full as members’ suppressed fears poured out. The therapeutic value of this verbal catharsis was immediately obvious, and the usual ninety-minute meeting went into overtime. Veronica regretted the need to wrap it up at nine thirty, but she was pleased to see that many people stayed around after the meeting to talk, listen, share, and heal. She was concerned by the intensity of the feelings and fears expressed, and knew the agenda in the coming weeks would have to focus on how to deal with these fears.
Driving home, she felt the strength of the group as she considered her fears. With emotions and mindset recalibrated, she felt better prepared for the conversation she would soon have with Mandy.
Walter Reed National Military Medical Center
20 September 2017
Lyman Burkmeister had a life challenge of his own: staying alive long enough to transition Clayton McCarty into his job as president of the United States. He had spent the last several days taking tests, managing pain, and regaining strength, but he still felt lousy.
Last night, as he sat in a cushy lounge chair in his corner suite at Walter Reed, he had been interrupted by three somber men: Doctor Toomay and two oncologists from the hospital. They had entered his room with worried looks on their faces.
“By your grim expressions, I’d guess it doesn’t look good for the home team,” Burkmeister said with a bravado meant to disguise his fear. “Go ahead, fellas, give it to me straight. As president, I’m used to hearing troubling news on a regular basis.”
Doc Toomay launched into a long medical dissertation on the president’s state of health, but he might as well have saved his words because nothing else registered with the president after the words terminal cancer and imminent were mentioned. Burkmeister was stunned. What am I hearing? How can this be? I’m the president! After what seemed like hours, his mind started to work the problem.
“… and you have one of the most virulent forms of stage four pancreatic cancer we have ever seen, Mr. President.” Burkmeister could see that Doc Toomay was having difficulty separating his emotions from his clinical diagnosis.
“How much time do I have left, Doc?” he asked.
“It’s hard to say, Mr. President, these things can …”
“Doc, cut the crap,” he interjected sharply, I’ve got a country to run, and I need to know how much time I have left to transition my presidency. Forget all the medical mumbo-jumbo and just tell me what your gut is telling you about my condition.”
“You might have three months left, but it could well be less than that. I wish we could guarantee you a few weeks of better health so you could make all the preparations you’ll need to make, but we can’t. If we can have you for a couple more days, we can probably stabilize the pain and buy you a little time, but not much, I’m afraid.”
“Thanks, Doc. I know this has been tough on you, but I needed to know the score.”
With that, the president dismissed them. He wanted to be left alone with his thoughts.
He had always wondered what it would be like to be told you were going to die. Do you cry? Scream? Go into denial? What do you do? As a former CEO, governor, and president, the threat of a major crisis was not new to him. Work the problem, work the problem, he thought as he rocked back and