Gore, Ariel. Rehearsals for Dying: Digressions on Love and Cancer. Feminist Press, 2025.

Rehearsal for Dying is a work of creative nonfiction written from Ariel Gore’s perspective about her wife Deena’s Stage Four breast cancer and the profound effect it has on their relationship. When Deena is diagnosed, the disease is already terminal. Despite their efforts to fulfill Deena’s bucket list, their days are consumed by doctor visits, conflicting medical information, and the slow, visible process of dying. Gore’s narrative captures the tension between love and loss—the desire to hold on to moments of life while facing the inevitability of death.

Deena chooses to forgo both chemotherapy and a double mastectomy, understanding that survival is no longer possible. In her own writing, she captures this painful acceptance:

“Then what’s the point?” (179)

The line appears in Deena’s musical, spoken by Ariel, blurring the boundary between art and lived experience. Despite their effort to remain hopeful, Ariel’s grief grows unbearable as she confronts the truth that there is no recovery, only the process of letting go.

Throughout the book, the doctors’ language becomes its own kind of character—a reflection of authority, hope, and denial. Their diction shapes Deena’s emotions and Ariel’s mistrust. When the doctors speak positively, Deena clings to optimism; when they are blunt, she collapses into despair. Gore reveals how language—especially medical language—can wound even when meant to heal.

Early in the narrative, Dr. Ego tells Deena that she can help her, adding,

“If I’m the one to walk you over there, they’ll wait for the devil” (80).

The line reads almost metaphorically—the doctor as the devil guiding Deena deeper into her personal hell, toward the PET scan that confirms her suffering.

Soon after, Dr. Ego lays out a strict plan:

“Ms. Chafetz, you will have six months of IV chemo, and you will have a double mastectomy” (84).

The phrasing is directive rather than compassionate; Deena is given no choice, only instructions.

Later, Dr. Mushroom, the pain specialist, delivers the most brutal truth:

“This disease is going to take your life” (184).

Deena instantly rejects his bluntness, calling him an “asshole.” When another physician, Dr. Vogue, offers hope, Deena’s spirit brightens:

“I think your cancer will get better once we start the Enheru” (231).

Through these encounters, Gore exposes the contradiction between false hope and harsh honesty. The doctors’ attempts to be factual or encouraging often fail to consider the emotional timing and vulnerability of their patient. Deena’s reactions are not weakness—they are a valid response to the way information is delivered. Compassionate communication, Gore implies, requires not just accuracy but empathy, patience, and space for grief.

In my own writing, I often find myself drawn to characters like Deena—those who hold onto hope in moments of uncertainty. Like Gore, I want to give voice to resistance, to compassion, and to the quiet defiance of those who face authority and mortality with courage. In my novel Discordia, my protagonist Eris reflects:

“There is more than just human disaster. There are the mountains, the children, ancient knowledge that has not yet been destroyed.”

This spirit of perseverance mirrors the emotional depth Gore achieves through her storytelling.

Deena dies at the end of Rehearsal for Dying, but she reads and approves the manuscript before her death. Her act of signing off on the book becomes a final, poignant gesture—a conscious acknowledgment of her diagnosis and a symbolic acceptance of her fate. In doing so, Deena transforms her death into an act of authorship—her ultimate rehearsal for dying.