Something happened to me when I was told I was dying.
Actually I wasn’t told in those words exactly. The words “death” and “dying”
weren’t used at all. “Metastasized” and “no cure” have been used along with “average
life-expectancy” …but not DYING. This coming Friday will mark two weeks since I
heard that news. Today is one week since I got out of the hospital after being
rushed by ambulance because I couldn’t breathe and my blood pressure had
plummeted. Today is the day I followed up with my oncologist to discuss the
findings of the scans and tests run whilst enjoying my hospital stay. Today I
learned what places it has chosen to latch onto and start eating me: spine, pelvis,
left lung, liver, and skull.
Stage 4.
Metastatic.
It’s in my bones.
According to Western Medicine, I’m fucked. Do you know what
the average lifespan of someone with stage 4 metastatic breast cancer is? Four
years. Yes, four. Now let’s be clear that this is the “average.” Well kids, I’m
not fucking average. Never have been. While it’s true that for the vast
majority of my life I felt that I was below average, I have learned something
about where we place ourselves in regard to that spectrum. We tend to restrict
ourselves to “above” or “below”. How about just stepping off of that spectrum
completely? How about instead of “above” or “below” we choose “not?” I am NOT
average, not by a long-shot. So I am not accepting averages here. I’m not
accepting Western Medicine’s cold dismissal of this vessel when the spirit
inside it is screaming to prove it wrong, to smash this monster, to raise my
beautiful daughter.
A dark summer it was, the darkest. Autumn barely whispered
and winter is already knocking at my windowpane. So much of the year was spent
feeling like I was dying, and honestly, wanting to. I can’t help thinking of
stories I’ve heard about people who earnestly tried committing suicide only to
have it fail somehow and how they instantly regretted the choice they had made
once it was “too late.” I wonder if every person who kills themselves has that
happen. My case definitely isn’t suicide, but I can’t lie. I was tired of
living. I wanted to close my eyes and never have to open them again. The only
thing keeping me on this plane was my precious and amazing child. Now that
Death is making eyes at me for very, very real this time, I am absolutely not
interested. I want to live. I want to be. I want to become. I’ve got shit to do
and like Hell I’m just going to leave this plane when there is a little girl
who needs me.
I’m angry. I’m fucking livid. After all the horrors and
traumas that breast cancer put me through, after my marriage crumbled, after
scraping at crumbs to start pulling some sort of life together, after changing
and becoming stronger than I’ve ever been only to get knocked down by one
gut-wrenching heartache after another this year, this…THIS is what I’m
presented with??? No. Fuck this. No. Not interested. I will find a way. If this
thing wants to kill me, fine. But not before I raise Violet. Not before I
create a life I can be proud of. Okay, so it didn’t go the way I wanted. That
stable life with a caring partner, that fulfilling career choice, that crusade
against all things unjust and unsavory, that legacy I wanted to build; none of
it seems to be possible now. No walk down the aisle in a beautiful gown to greet
the love of my life. No impressive college degrees. I have to let go of those
wants because all of my energy now is devoted to living. It’s devoted to seeing
my child into adulthood. I will hunt down and utilize all alternative
treatments I can get my hands on. I will summon all of my will. I will live.
As I said…I’m fucking livid. But the anger is turning into
something good. It’s turning into bloodlust. It’s turning into determination.
If there is one thing I’ve learned for certain about myself over the last
couple of years, it’s that I’m a fighter. No matter how long I spend recovering
from a devastating blow, I get up. I always get up.
