The 48 hours after the call
Sleep, food, who you tell, what you don't Google. The first two days when nothing is decided yet and everything feels permanent.
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§ Journey
Sleep, food, who you tell, what you don't Google. The first two days when nothing is decided yet and everything feels permanent.
The call came on a Tuesday. I'd had the scan on the Friday before, told myself I'd forgotten about it by Sunday, and was back to thinking about a pricing email when the receptionist asked if I could come in tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow afternoon, in any GP's voice, is not a routine call. I sat in my car for twenty minutes after I hung up and didn't notice the rain. That's the moment this module is about. Not the diagnosis. The 48 hours before you have a plan.
The first two days are the worst-managed window of the whole experience. Nothing is decided yet, but everything feels permanent. The internet is open in nine tabs. The sleep is gone. The brain is running every catastrophic scenario it can model. And the most damaging decisions of the next six months get made in this window, often by men who have never been in this situation before and don't know which moves are reversible.
This is the floor. Get this part right and the rest of the journey is easier than it should be.
A diagnosis call (or even a "we need to do more tests" call) triggers an acute stress response that is functionally indistinguishable from physical shock. Your cortisol is up. Your heart rate is elevated. Your sleep architecture is broken from minute one. You are not thinking clearly. You will not be thinking clearly tomorrow either. Plan around that fact, not against it.
Decisions made in this state, in my own experience and in every man I've watched go through it:
The aim of the first 48 hours is not to be productive. It is to slow the clock down enough that the productive decisions, which come later, get made by you and not by your nervous system.
1. No major medical decisions in the first 48 hours. None. Not surgery dates, not treatment choices, not "I'll just get it done this week." The call is the call. The plan comes after a second conversation, in a calmer state, ideally with someone in the room.
2. Close the tabs. Whatever you've been Googling, stop. The medical internet is calibrated for the worst version of every condition because that's what gets clicks. The five-year survival statistic for your specific stage, age and treatment plan does not exist on the front page of Google. It exists in your specialist's office, three weeks from now. Do not let the worst-case version live rent-free in your head until then.
3. Sleep is the highest-leverage thing you can do. It will be hard. Take it seriously anyway. The body recovers, the brain rebuilds emotional regulation, and decision-making improves with sleep more than with any other input. If you cannot sleep, do the basics: no screens an hour before bed, the bedroom cold and dark, magnesium if you take it, no alcohol. If a sleeping tablet is on offer from your GP for a week, take it. This is not the time to be stoic about a chemical that gets you to morning.
4. Eat. Three meals. You won't want to. Do it anyway. Plain food. Protein, carbs, vegetables. The body is now an asset, not a backdrop, and the asset needs fuel. Skipping meals while in shock is how you arrive at the specialist appointment lightheaded and unable to retain what they tell you.
5. Move, gently. A walk. Twenty minutes. Outside, ideally in something resembling daylight. Do not start a new training program. Do not punish yourself in the gym. Do not also not move at all. Walking is the dose.
6. Tell ONE person. Not the group chat. One. The right one. We'll come back to the wider telling-people work in a later module; for the first 48 hours, you need a single human who knows what's going on and can sit on the phone with you at 11pm if needed. Usually a partner. If not a partner, a sibling or one specific mate. Pick the calmest one, not the closest one. Calm beats love in this window.
7. Write the questions down. Whatever you want to ask the next doctor, write it as it comes to you. Phone notes are fine. You will forget half of them in the appointment otherwise. By the time you get to the specialist, the list will be twenty-plus items long. That's the point. The good appointments are the ones where you walked in with a list.
Three things men reach for in the first 48 hours that don't help:
If today is Wednesday and the call was this morning, here is the actual shape of the next two days:
That's the whole 48-hour window. It looks like very little. That's the design. The work that's coming needs you intact when it arrives.
DON'T spiral. Spiralling feels like preparation. It is not preparation. It is your nervous system rehearsing a future that has not happened, and using up the energy you need for the future that will.
Sleep. Eat. Walk. Tell one person. Write the questions down. Wait.
The first call is not the diagnosis. The diagnosis is the one with the plan attached.
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