Why must she cry? That is the last thing I need right now. That is the last thing anyone needs right now. I stood up and walked over to mom. Instead of speaking, I sat in her lap and rested my head in the curve of her neck. She managed to give a weak smile. I was scared. She is too. The doctor walked in, holding sheets of paper. She gave an empathetic smile.

“Are you ready to here this?” She said, taking a deep breath in.

“I don’t know,” I honestly replied.

“You have type 3 breast cancer.” She said, straight to the point, voice wavering.

          I walked out of the room, ignoring the voices shouting at me, clawing at my life. It was ripping me to shreds. Just those four words, they changed my life. I walked past what were now hoards of doctors and nurses, chasing after me. I stopped to take a breath, when I realized that I was outside, and blocks away from the hospital.

          I found my way home, even if it was 11:00 pm. My mother was there, arms open. I walked into them, hugging her tighter than I ever had before. My father came and cradled both of us in his arms. I felt fragile, for the first time in ages, I felt brittle, and small, and….. Empty.

I felt empty.

Chemo was, interesting. Having an immense fear of needles since I was little made it much worse. Weekly I got needles and syringes poked into every vein and artery I had in my body. I knew I had to do it. I knew I wouldn’t complain. I shouldn’t. I try not to. I was constantly hooked up to machines, in a hospital bed. I would fall randomly. The feeling of emptiness inside me grew. It grew so much that it seemed like a big, black, empty hole inside of me.

I began to fade. Chemo was not suceeding. Every night I was afraid to go to sleep, afraid that I would never wake up. Every morning it was harder to get up. Every day I was fading. Until I stayed in the hospital. They decided to not risk me being in the world. So I slept in a hospital bed, ate in the hospital bed, and lived in the hospital bed. It had only been two months. Two months since I found out I had cancer. Cancer was taking hold of me. It was telling me that I couldn’t get rid of it. That I couldn’t survive. It told me to give up. It told me to die.

          My nightmares were worsening, I was filled with pain and fear. But that made me stronger. I spent my days drawing me, living and well. I wrote short phrases like “I. WILL. SURVIVE.” I spent my time listening to Gloria Gaynor’s I will Survive. I did not complain. Instead I became eager for shots that could make me better. But still, I faded. But while I was fading, the black hole inside of me was fought, and was losing. That gave me hope. I slept and I woke up. I read, and I drew.

          One morning, I woke up. I woke up and felt worse than ever. My boyfriend was there, so was my family. They were watching me with greiffull eyes. I knew it was the day. The day I would move to death. I saw them watching me. Watching me like I should be afraid. I was afraid. I was also curious, so, boldly, I spoke the words of Mary Oliver:

“When death comes

Like the hungry bear in autumn;

When death comes and takes all the bright coins from

His purse to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;

When death comes

like the measle-pox
 
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
 
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
 
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
 
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
 
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
 
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
 
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
 
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
 
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
 
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.” I finished reciting the poem, weak from all the emotions jumbled up inside of me.

I saw tears in my mother’s eyes. My sister was sobbing. And I watched my

Boyfriend kiss my forehead. My eyes were hot.

“Have I simply visited the world?” I whispered.

“No, you have made a difference in all of us.” My mother said. My boyfriend was

Stroking my hair and kissing me. My sister was sobbing and holding my hand. My

Mother was in a chair at the foot of my bed, and my father was next to her. I

looked at them fondly, and watched the monitor go blank.

“I hope you’re telling the truth,” I joked, giving a weak smile. Then I closed my

eyes, and found a new home in the cottage of darkness.

Thank you Mary Oliver,

for all the light you have shed upon the world,

For all the questions you have risen,

For all the curiosity you have given,

For all the words you have combined,

For all the fears you have demolished,

For all the magic you have written,

For you simply, not, visiting the world.

So I thank you, I thank you for your difference in the world

So I thank you, I thank you for you sharing yourself

So I thank you, for living fully