When doctors told me my stage-four cancer was terminal and that I had about six months left, I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even ask for a second opinion. I remember nodding slowly, thanking them, and thinking about something very simple: peace.
Not the kind people talk about in big speeches, but the quiet kind. The kind that comes from knowing who will sit beside you when the room grows silent. Who will hold your hand when words run out.
I had already been mostly alone for years.
My children lived nearby. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes away. But visits had become rare long before I got sick. That pattern didn’t start with my diagnosis. It started years earlier, after my husband died
After his funeral, I was the one who called. The one who invited. The one who tried to keep us close. Holidays were rushed affairs squeezed between other plans. Phone calls were short and distracted. If I didn’t initiate, weeks turned into months without hearing from them. So when my diagnosis didn’t suddenly pull them closer, I wasn’t shocked.
Just disappointed.
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