I’m dying.  I’d thought I had been dying many times before, but apparently my ebola attack was only a slight cold and my hair falling out was not actually some omen of my death.  Yet today, on November 16th of 2014, I was finally actually diagnosed with something that I may not make it through.  And let me say, it sure is a lot worse than a little head cold. Today, I was diagnosed with cancer.

The news came fast and clean, like pulling off a band-aid.  “Angeline, I’m sorry, but you tested positive for ovarian cancer.”  For months, the pains in my stomach have been getting worse and worse, until a slight touch would send me doubled over in pain.  Because of that, my family decided that I should probably get checked out.  So, they had raced me over to the emergency room, with me, the whole time, begging if somebody, anybody, would stop the pain.  But nobody could.  When we got to the ER they decided that I should get a CAT-scan, and, after 2 of the longest hours of my life, I was diagnosed with cancer.

I look around at my family and the doctor, waiting for somebody to tell me that they are just joking around, but, in my heart, I know that this is something my family can’t just joke away.  As my brain finally starts to process what this means, my senses go into hyperdrive.  My eyes take in the curtains surrounding the other patients, and my imagination can’t help but think of boils and deadly diseases.  The sickly clean smell of the hospital is almost too much for me to bear, and I wonder if this is what death smells like.  Disinfectant wipes and sterile alcohol solution.  My breathing becomes loud and laboured, until all that I can hear is my breathing and my steady heartbeat in my ears.  The coarse hospital gown rubs against me in a way that is by no means comfortable, and my short shoulder length brown hair catches as I turn my head back and forth.  My mouth feels like a cotton ball, and I can barely speak even a few words.

“Am I dying?”  The words come out easier than I expected, and I feel... not scared, but almost interested.  After years of my many “fatal diseases”,  I find it hard to believe that I actually have something that can’t just be brushed away as a figment of my imagination.

The doctor gives me what is probably supposed to be a polite grin, but comes across more like a grimace.  “Now Angeline, you do have a very serious disease, but it can be treated.  We will do everything in our power to help you.”

For some reason that scares me the most.  “What do you mean ‘treated’?”

“Angeline, you are correct to assume that this cancer can be fatal, but you are lucky.   We were able to find it at such an early stage, that we should be able to stop it from spreading.”

“But what do you mean treated?”  My voice is raspy, even to my own ears, and I begin to wonder if someone could go into shock over something like this.

“The first weapon in our arsenal is surgical intervention. This will require a surgery to remove the affected ovary.  At the same time we will check surrounding lymph nodes.”

He said this like it was a good thing, but I didn’t really understand most of what he had just said.  The only thing that I did understand was surgery.  

Wait, surgery!  Even though I was just told that I could be fixed, I start crying, as reality comes crashing down on me.  I don’t want a surgery!  Those hurt!  But, I don’t want to die either! 

My preoccupied thoughts are broken, as I realize that the doctor was talking to my mom.  I can see their lips moving, yet I can’t seem to understand what they are saying.

Surgery as soon as possible!?!  I understand that!  As my family takes me out to the car, the last thing I hear is  that the surgery is to be on the following Tuesday.  That’s just 5 days away!  I’m so scared.

                                  _______________

The next five days are torture.  My mother keeps telling me, over and over again, that I will be fine, but I can’t seem to believe her.  The surgery is in 3 days. 2 days.  Tomorrow.  Today.
As I prepare for the operation my heart beats faster and faster until it no longer feels like a heartbeat, but more like a bird wildly flying around its cage, banging against the walls, trying with all of its might to be free.  I wish that my bird would calm down.

BIRD!  I think I am going crazy.  Everything is happening too fast.  Another horrible hospital gown, doctors giving me instructions on something called chemotherapy, and, finally, them telling me that I would need to breathe in some gas, so that I won’t be awake during the surgery. 

As they put a mask over my mouth, my mind starts to slow down.  Then, very gradually, my heartbeat returns to its normal speed.  As my eyes start to feel like 1000 lbs. weights, my breathing finally slows, and I smile for the first time in 5 days.  I wasn’t going to die.  As my eyelids close, and I start to slip away from consciousness, my final thought is, I’m going to be okay.  Then with a light heart and a happy spirit, I close my eyes and fall asleep.