I have never been more frightened than when...

I have never been more frightened than when...

“It doesn’t look good” Dr. Mitchell said. At that moment, I had never felt more frightened in my life. Stage IV breast cancer…metastasis to multiple lymph nodes, and now it had spread to my lungs. I was going to die. I didn’t want to utter that cliché question “How long?” so instead, I just looked at Dr. Mitchell with my ridiculous, pleading puppy dog eyes. He said “A month or so…it spread so rapidly, is so aggressive…at this point, there isn’t much we can do.”

So that was that. Fear of death hit me, but only for a brief moment. I jumped right to the acceptance stage. I’m quick like that.

I went home, fed my pet gerbil, and called my mom. “Hey mom. Yup. Yup. Yup, I talked to him today. Yup, they’re doing fine. Yup, I’m feeling great.” This went on for about a half-hour. Then I hung up, sat down on the couch, and turned on the tv.

The next month went on like any other month. I went to work each morning (I’m a kindergarten teacher). The kids had known about my cancer, with the double mastectomy having taken place just six months earlier. I could have told them my time was short. I could have advised my principal that I would be “leaving” my position soon. I could have told my mom. My brother. My best friend. I figured I was better off just keeping it on the DL.

Since I had shaken off that intense fear so quickly, I thought my next move should be the opposite of fear (or as close to an opposite one can get): indulgence. This, meaning, margaritas, every kind and type of cake, and a lot of masturbation. So that’s how I lived the next five weeks. I was a bit shocked after four weeks, when I didn’t die the next day. But I suppose it isn’t an exact science.

Since I wasn’t dead after week four, I took a weekend to fly out to see my mother and brother. My dad had died of a heart attach a few years earlier, so there would be no last goodbyes to him. The weekend was pretty routine. Dinners out (more cake and margaritas!), bland conversation, a few laughs here and there. Then I headed back to the airport on Sunday night, ready for work the next day.

A few mornings later I started to feel sick. Then a bit sicker. Then sicker. Week seven I was out of commission, and I stopped leaving my apartment. All I felt was pain; I was coughing up blood, I could barely breath. I could have gone to the hospital, but instead chose to drink myself selfless. Cake was done with, since I couldn’t keep anything down. But, I am proud to say that I could still somehow manage to swallow vodka shots.


And then, 58 days (8 weeks and 2 days) after my most frightening moment, I died. Well, I’m assuming that is what is going to happen, as I’m writing these words to you with my last bit of strength. So soon, I will close my eyes, and will be gone. It was frightening for a moment, but now, now it’s just life. Or lack thereof.