I spent weeks preparing the people I love for my death. Then last week, the pain lifted — and I realized I wanted to live.
And for the first time in a long time, I thought — what if I don’t die from this?
I’ve had oral cancer since 2014. Years of surgeries, infusion rooms, clinical trials, and a body that keeps taking hits I never asked for. Three failed trials this year alone. The cancer spread from the original tumor into the bone. Stage 4 diagnosis. Surgery would mean losing my jaw — and my teeth. I said no. I’m holding onto those teeth like they’re the last thing I own. Because for me, they kind of are.
The pain got so bad I couldn’t get ahead of it. Fentanyl patches. Painkillers. Steroids. Gabapentin for the nerve pain. I was managing, but barely. And somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing that the woman I used to be had gone quiet.
Then last week — she came back. With more medication adjustments, the pain eased. My energy returned. My attitude lifted. And I realized I had missed myself more than I knew.
Here’s the part I’m almost embarrassed to admit.
I had started preparing you for my death.
I gave a speech called Dying Well. I walked you — my friends, my clients, my family — down this long, slow road, the way elephant herds walk their dying. Surrounding them. Comforting them. Anticipating the silence.
And you showed up. Every single one of you.
But then I started to wonder: would anyone hold it against me if I lived?
I want to live.
I want to keep working. I want to keep talking — with my teeth in, my spirits high, and my strength still mine. I want to make a difference in every way I still can.
The scientists aren’t betting on me. The odds aren’t great. I know the history of stage 4 patients who came before me.
But I also know this: thousands of people are praying for me. My friends are hoping. And I am not done.
I say cautiously, humbly, with every ounce of respect I have, “God, if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue.”
Maybe God will say, “As you wish.”
My mother — Dead Rita, gone since 1998, missed every single day — had a saying:
We shall see what we shall see.
That’s where I live right now. Not in certainty. Not in defeat. Somewhere in the wide, uncertain, beautiful middle, where hope is not naive and faith is not foolish.
Wherever your attention goes, your intention follows. And mine is fixed on living.
So here I am. Knocked down more times than I can count. Getting back up because it’s simply my nature. Sixty-nine years of fighting, and I am not about to stop now.
To everyone who believed in me — and maybe secretly had your doubts — thank you. Your voices are in my corner every single day. That’s why I write this. Not to teach anyone a lesson, but because you are part of this story whether you signed up for it or not.
Keep calm. Carry on.
The best is still yet to come.
And three months from now? Watch for my next post.
Title: Still Not Dead.
If you know someone fighting something they’re not sure they’ll survive — send this to them. Not as a lesson. Just as proof that getting back up is still possible.