By the time I turned 41, I had been pummeled by terrible news and even more terrible survival statistics. If I treated the recurrence of cancer in my chest-wall with the recommended treatment of surgery, my survival odds would have been 15%. If I chose a brand-new-at-the-time — but brutal — cocktail of chemo, in addition to surgery and radiation, my survival odds would rise to 50%. Fifty was better than 15, so that seemed the obvious choice.
“You are not a number,” he told me. “You are a person, and your personal survival odds are either 100% or 0%. I’m an optimist, so I say they’re 100%. Now, what are your survival odds?”“One hundred percent,” he answered. “You have to believe it too.” “And they’re not,” he concluded, firmly but kindly. “Because the actual evidence supporting these treatments is not that convincing. However …”