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A few days after the CT scan and biopsy, my husband Alex and I waited in the examining room, still hoping that the results would prove nothing wrong, but a mouthful was wrong. The diagnosis was low-grade, follicular, small-cleaved lymphoma, grade I, non-Hodgkin's, stage IV. 

My white blood counts were soaring, so "watch and wait," a period when no treatment is administered, was probably not an option for long. No kidding. Since the diagnosis was stage IV, and there is no stage V, I couldn't help thinking that the only thing we'd be watching and waiting for was the hearse.

Dr. Kaminski talked about possible clinical trials and various chemotherapy options, but all I heard was the sound of vomiting. Unable to process what he was saying, I replied, with false bravado, "Well, let's fix this fast. Dead salesmen don't usually meet their quotas, and my boss might get upset." Dr. Kaminski smiled. Alex, my "boss," was horrified. The wisecrack kept me from sobbing.

Alex immediately hunkered down for the long haul. He refused to indulge in what-if's and saw the futility of wishing that cancer had not invaded our lives. It had, and so he consciously asked himself what he could do to mitigate the disruption. Knowing that he would be of no help to me if he allowed himself to crumble, he resolved to stay focused on a positive outcome and to safeguard our optimistic attitudes, which he believed were critical to the ultimate goal of wellness. He promised himself to assume my job when necessary and to juggle medical appointments, work and whatever else would give me the mental and physical energy to heal. Deliberately, he appointed himself Head Cheerleader, although it would take me months to notice.

Me? I was the queen of denial, desperately holding on to the belief that we couldn't possibly be staring a life-threatening disease squarely in the face. Oh, I'd wept a couple of times since this whole mess started, but only out of frustration. And then, just days after diagnosis, I was driving home, not paying particular attention to the radio, when "Big Girls Don't Cry" started playing and unexpectedly unleashed a torrent of tears. Trust me, big girls do cry. A lot.

Unable to see, I pulled off the road, stopped the car, and sobbed so hard that my body shook like a tree in a hurricane. I pounded the steering wheel until my hands hurt. Gripped by raw fear and grief, I screamed and cursed and begged for my life. I wondered if I would grow old with Alex. How much would he have to suffer? How much would I? Would I see my grandchildren grow up? Seeing them start kindergarten suddenly seemed a stretch. And what had I ever done that really mattered?

And then, I shed the cloak of denial and determined to take the offensive, defy the odds, and learn everything possible to help me fight back. The question was: where to start?

Coming Friday, Oct. 1: The facts, the foe and the frenzy.

Betsy de Parry is the author of The Roller Coaster Chroncles and host of a series of webcasts about cancer. Find her on Facebook or e-mail her.