Today, I attend a business meeting with a friend/colleague I've not seen or spoken to for quite some time--a couple years, anyway. This is a person I know from business dealings, as well as socially; I've been to his home a few times, and vice versa. I'm there to do some paperwork, so I can take over an insurance policy my company has turned over to me.

Why do I say this? I'm not sure; I feel like it helps set up the story a little bit, give it some context. Anyway, as I said, I'm there to sign some paperwork, but before we get to the paperwork, we start with some small talk. He's aware of what's been happening with me--which is to say he knows I've been diagnosed with cancer--through the grapevine. I also know he read the articles about me that appeared in the Gazette and the Missoulian a few months back, because he says, "I don't know much about your situation, other than the article said the cancer is terminal."

I sit in mild shock for a few moments. Terminal. Did the article say that? No, it didn't. I know this, because I've read the articles in question several dozen times. (I'll admit to being obsessive/compulsive AND vain. Oh, and I also have cancer.) I'm quite certain the articles don't mention the word terminal, and yet...there's something in there about follicular lymphoma being "slow growing but deadly." Does that mean terminal?

In lay terms, I suppose it could mean that--if you don't give it much thought. And I must admit, if you don't have cancer, you probably don't give it much thought. It certainly wasn't on my list of favorite topics before diagnosis.

Still, something about that "terminal" word gnaws at me, so when I get home, I look it up at the trusty dictionary.com web site. And there it is, under definition number nine: Informal. utterly beyond hope, rescue, or saving.

That's it. "Terminal" has become synonymous with "hopeless." And admit it, whenever you hear the word "terminal," the word you immediately think of is always "cancer." The two are inextricably linked in our consciousness, and so in many ways, cancer is always terminal. Despite all the advances we've made in cancer treatment in the last few decades, I think that perception still exists among many folks: cancer is terminal.

I suppose, for me, that means I'll always meet people who think I'm a Dead Man Walking. That means, when I tell these people I'm feeling great and doing well, and my treatment has a good chance of giving me a long remission or possibly even a cure, it will just be "Tony putting on a brave face," and these folks will know deep inside that Tony's going to die of this cancer. And probably much sooner than he expects.

I think even of the kind 90-something year-old lady who lives across the street from me. Every six weeks, she must have the exterior lights on her house changed--even though the existing bulbs are working perfectly well. (And I thought I was obsessive/compulsive.) For several years now, she's asked me to change those lights for her every six weeks, and I've always been happy to; like clockwork, she calls me and asks.

Except for the last several months. Since she found out I've been diagnosed with cancer, she hasn't called and asked me to change her lights. Evidently, according to her, I'm terminal. And twisting a bulb out of a light socket is too much of an effort for me in my weakened state.

Then again, she's survived 90-something years, and still lives in and maintains her own home, so she obviously knows a few things I don't.

Still, when I detect that mild whiff of pity rolling off a select few people as they ask how I'm feeling, I feel my blood pressure rising just a bit. Let them think I have terminal cancer, if they must, and let them think my situation is hopeless.

It's not nearly as hopeless as terminal ignorance.