The only reason to have a positive mental attitude is that it

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the office blinds, slicing the room into bands of gold and shadow. The air smelled faintly of coffee, antiseptic, and that quiet sterility hospitals carry — the scent of waiting. Outside, the city moved at its usual pace — ambulances, sirens, cars, rain on windshields — while inside, everything stood still.

Jack sat in a stiff plastic chair, one hand gripping a paper cup of lukewarm coffee. His eyes, grey and tired, traced the stains on the floor tiles. Across from him, Jeeny sat by the window, her hair tied back, a small notebook on her lap, her posture too calm for the tension in the room.

Host: The clock ticked in the silence — mechanical, relentless. The kind of ticking that turns minutes into small eternities.

Jeeny: “Molly Ivins once said, ‘The only reason to have a positive mental attitude is that it makes life better. It doesn’t cure cancer.’”

Jack: “Figures you’d quote a journalist in a hospital waiting room.”

Host: His tone was dry, but the exhaustion beneath it softened the edge.

Jeeny: “She had cancer, Jack. She knew what she was talking about.”

Jack: “Yeah. And she still died. So what good did all that optimism do?”

Host: The rain outside tightened, streaking the windowpane like a restless heartbeat. Jeeny looked up — her reflection blurred, merging with the darkening sky beyond.

Jeeny: “Maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe the point wasn’t to cure it, but to face it.”

Jack: “You mean to pretend things aren’t as bad as they are.”

Jeeny: “No. To see them clearly and still choose to smile anyway.”

Jack: “That sounds like denial wrapped in glitter.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s defiance.”

Host: He shifted in his chair, eyes narrowing, the flicker of an old anger surfacing — the kind that’s less about rage and more about helplessness.

Jack: “Defiance doesn’t stop the tumor. Or the layoffs. Or the war. People talk about positive thinking like it’s a superpower. It’s not. It’s just anesthesia.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes anesthesia keeps you alive long enough to heal.”

Host: The words hit him, quietly. He looked at her then — really looked — noticing the dark circles under her eyes, the faint tremor in her hands.

Jack: “You still believe optimism changes something?”

Jeeny: “Not the world. Just the way you walk through it.”

Jack: “That’s not much.”

Jeeny: “It’s everything.”

Host: Outside, a nurse wheeled a cart past the open door, the faint clatter of metal trays breaking the silence for a moment. Jack stared after her — the quiet efficiency, the practiced calm.

Jack: “You ever notice how people who’ve seen real pain don’t talk about positivity? They talk about endurance. The ones preaching optimism are usually selling something.”

Jeeny: “And the ones worshiping realism are usually hiding their fear behind intelligence.”

Host: His jaw tightened. Her voice didn’t accuse; it simply stated — like truth wearing no disguise.

Jeeny: “Molly Ivins wasn’t selling anything. She was dying, and she still laughed. That’s not delusion, Jack. That’s courage.”

Jack: “Courage doesn’t change the outcome.”

Jeeny: “No. But it changes the experience. And that’s all we ever really own.”

Host: The fluorescent light above them flickered, buzzing softly — like a nervous heartbeat suspended in the air. Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, grimacing at its bitterness.

Jack: “So you think smiling through the pain makes it noble?”

Jeeny: “No. But bitterness doesn’t make it meaningful either.”

Jack: “Then what does?”

Jeeny: “Perspective.”

Host: She stood, walked to the window, and rested her hand against the glass. The rain cooled her skin, distorting her reflection — as if even her face refused certainty.

Jeeny: “You can’t control suffering, Jack. You can only decide how to meet it. A positive attitude doesn’t cure cancer, but it keeps the soul from dying before the body does.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But tell that to the guy in Room 206. He hasn’t eaten in three days. You think he cares about perspective?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not now. But maybe his daughter does. Maybe his wife does. Maybe she needs to believe tomorrow will hurt a little less. Hope isn’t always for the person who’s suffering. Sometimes it’s for the ones left waiting.”

Host: The room went still. Even the clock seemed quieter — its ticking absorbed by the heavy truth between them.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s seen this before.”

Jeeny: “I have.”

Host: Her eyes lowered, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “My mother. Stage four, two years. She laughed until the end. Not because she thought it would save her, but because she wanted me to remember her laughter more than her pain.”

Jack: “And did you?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Host: He looked down at the paper cup in his hand — the rim cracked slightly, the coffee cold and forgotten. His expression softened, the edge of skepticism melting into something almost human.

Jack: “So optimism is just... self-preservation?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s generosity.”

Jack: “Generosity?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Of spirit. Of energy. Of light. You give it even when you don’t feel it. You give it because someone else might need it more than you.”

Host: The rain eased. Outside, a pale light began to pierce the clouds — faint, hesitant, like the world remembering morning.

Jack: “You think Ivins would agree?”

Jeeny: “She’d probably laugh and say, ‘Honey, I was just trying to get through the day.’ But that’s the point. Getting through the day — that’s a kind of victory.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it feels small.”

Jeeny: “Small things are what life’s made of.”

Host: Her voice was calm now, no longer trying to convince him — just laying down truth like a weary soldier laying down arms.

Jack leaned back, running a hand through his hair. He looked toward the hallway, where a faint laughter echoed — the sound of a nurse, a patient, someone clinging to a fragile normal.

Jack: “You ever get tired of believing in hope?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But the alternative’s worse.”

Jack: “Which is?”

Jeeny: “Despair that pretends to be wisdom.”

Host: He smiled — not much, but enough. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, but promises one day it might.

Jack: “You know, for someone who talks about truth so much, you make a pretty good case for delusion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe delusion and faith are cousins. I just choose the one that makes life better.”

Host: The sunlight finally broke through the clouds, slanting across the tiled floor in golden fragments. The room felt warmer — not in temperature, but in pulse.

Jack: “You know what, Jeeny? Maybe you’re right. Maybe attitude doesn’t cure cancer. But maybe it keeps the rest of us from catching it — the kind that eats you from the inside.”

Jeeny: “The kind called hopelessness?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Host: The clock ticked again, steady now, as if time itself had exhaled.

The door opened slightly; a nurse peeked in, her smile tired but kind. Jack nodded, Jeeny closed her notebook. The world, for a moment, felt still — real, ordinary, bearable.

As they stood, Jeeny looked out the window one last time — the rain had stopped, the city gleamed under fragile sunlight, streets shimmering like mirrors of renewal.

Jeeny: “Maybe positivity isn’t about pretending. Maybe it’s just about deciding to live honestly — even when you know you can’t fix everything.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: The camera lingers on their faces — worn, human, quietly brave — and then drifts toward the window, where light and rain trade places in silence.

Host: And in that moment — amid the ticking, the laughter, and the endless hum of human fragility — the truth becomes clear: a positive attitude isn’t a cure, but a choice, a way of saying yes to life, even when it whispers no.