The Real Thing

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.