The Diagnosis
Then came the diagnosis that changed everything—stage four pancreatic cancer. The doctor said six months, maybe eight if treatment went well. I was seventy-eight.
I called Linda first. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “But the kids have school, and Mark’s work is crazy. Maybe next month?”
She didn’t come.
I called Richard. “God, Mom, that’s awful. I’ll try to come soon—just swamped at work right now.”
He never did.
Beth didn’t answer at all.
Chemotherapy was brutal. It made me so sick I could barely eat or move. I drove myself to appointments, sat for hours as the poison dripped into my veins, then drove home to collapse into bed.
My neighbors didn’t check on me—why would they? I’d made myself the neighborhood pariah, forever bitter and judgmental.
The only sound I heard regularly was the rumble of motorcycles next door. The same noise I’d hated for decades became the only reminder that life outside my walls still existed.
