Most mornings, my body rousts me between three and four am. Within moments the fear I’m incubating surfaces. I remember the circumstances of my life. Yes, of course, this is who I am. This is what’s ahead.
Fear pins me to the bed. It clamps and grips my chest. Each breath, deliberate. It rises in my throat and chokes me.
I am forced to revisit the source of my fear and all its possible outcomes. My future unfolds in excruciating detail. I will lose my breast, my womanhood, my life. I will hurt and let down everyone who cares for me. I will be unrealized.
I will suffer. I am suffering now.
Cancer consumes me. It takes my money and nourishes itself with my peace. It’s a side-hustle that wants to be a full-time gig.
At the oncologist’s office, I refuse to be weighed or have my picture taken. Politely, of course. I still want them to help me. It can’t be all their way.
I’m clinging to this body. I want to hold my ground, never let anyone remove parts of me again. Even as I grasp, it changes under me. Hot flashes sneak up, forcing me to look around and see if anyone else is too warm. No, just me.
Things are afoot.
I’m not ready to go. It’s not about my potential. Think of what the world would be missing! No, my promise isn’t the issue. This is a selfish, grasping matter.
Plus, I don’t know how to die properly. No one has shown me how.
The world will move on just fine without me. New people are being made all the time, they will take up space I leave behind. They won’t know about the complicated scarf I knitted, my good haircuts, or the lovers I made laugh with my sly jokes.
It isn’t reasonable to cling to living, I can’t beat the system. But, I don’t care about any of that. I want what I want. I am a toddler who cannot be reasoned with.
The fear. You’d think I’d be more adept by now, an expert fear-wrangler. I’m nothing of the sort. Fear drags me by the foot, and I squirm like a helpless insect. All legs, and no power.
I’ve had cancer twice and still don’t know how to live on borrowed time.