“At least it’s not cancer.”

Courtesy Emma JaegleI was working in a residential treatment center for teens. It was a typical mid-week day, and I was supervising “school time,” a period where clients are able to work on their treatment assignments and homework from their schools back home. Often during this hour, the primary therapists would pull the clients for individual sessions. I happened to know that today was the day that Nicole* was going to be given her diagnosis of depression, and I was prepared to help her process her emotions should she need coaching after her return from session. Sure enough, Nicole returned from her therapist’s office with a solemn look on her face. When she sat down away from her peers, I walked over to her and asked, “How did it go?”

She let out a sigh, “Well, I found out my diagnosis.”

I nodded. “I see. What’s that like for you?”

“I guess it’s better to know what’s going on and have an explanation for everything. At least it’s not like I have cancer!”

That comment gave me pause. I thought: But I have cancer.

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