In psychiatry there is a certain condition known as delusion of reprieve. The condemned man, immediately before his execution, gets the illusion that he might be reprieved at the very last minute. (Frankl 1959, 8)
I think this describes what was happening in my mind in the early period of Linny’s illness (about a week or so before her admission to hospital). I suppose it’s about the conflict between one’s emotions (what you don’t want to believe) and one’s intellect (what you fear might be true).
Each new (wrong) diagnosis brought a flicker of hope. “Maybe it’s not as bad as I thought”. “Perhaps I’m just being pessimistic”. Depression, tension, influenza, sinusitis—each had a certain attraction; each was manageable; each was curable. My emotions—my hopes—jumped at each of these diagnoses. Each one appealed to my heart, even though my intellect rejected them, one by one.
My intellect made encephalitis seem like the “best” option, with a CVA next on the list, heading towards the worst possible explanation—a brain tumour. My intellect—divorced from emotion—had little doubt that it was a tumour, but my heart overruled all that my head believed and clutched at the curable “straws”—flu, depression, sinusitis, tension—these I could handle. These were my delusion of reprieve.
It’s like a psychological cold war, where our happiness could be blown to smithereens in the next second. We live in denial. I suppose it’s a coping mechanism—the only way in which we can enjoy our lives. I don’t really want to spend my days dwelling on the fact that I could drop dead, be bereaved, or be crippled in the next second. It’s easier to just ignore such realities and continue in my nice little world of denial.
Then, suddenly, our balloon of denial bursts, and we are confronted by reality. At this point, we resort to the delusion of reprieve in order to help us gradually to adjust to a hideous situation.