Dying to Live

My father used to tell me that life is what happens when you make other plans. I never quite understood that until my world was turned upside down, and I was left all alone in the rubble.

“Avalon Stone,” The feminine voice calls. I direct my stare to the medical assistant standing beside the door. I offer my best smile and follow her into my regular Doctor’s office. She writes down my weight and takes my blood pressure, before gesturing toward the familiar chair.

“Doctor Adams will be right with you,” the girl informs me, leaving before I have the chance to say thank you. I brush out my rather wrinkled shirt and try to avoid biting my nails. It’s been a nervous habit of mine for as long as I can remember. If this were any other routine visit, I wouldn’t be fighting the anxiety that constantly threatens to escape, but this is nothing of the sort.

A week ago, my back started hurting terribly. I brushed it off as a pulled muscle or a normal ache, but something still felt off. Then, three days ago while I was ironing my fiance’s work shirts, I stumbled into an atrocious coughing fit. It wasn’t until I saw the blood in my hand that I really started to worry.

According to Google, I am well on my way to the grave right now. Little tip: Never turn to the internet for medical advice. Even though Jackson keeps telling me it’s nothing, I don’t see coughing up blood as a casual occurrence.

I went into the lab the same day for blood work and booked the earliest Doctor’s appointment I could to talk about my results. Then, I took an unpaid sick day from work, and here I am. Luckily, my boss is only a year older than me and is casual about everything. Welcome to the modern world of software engineering in San Francisco.

Before I can overthink, the door swings open and I come face to face with Doctor Adams. It strikes me as odd that he isn’t wearing his usual happy-go-lucky smile. The man clears his throat before speaking.

“Avalon, how are you feeling?” he quizzes. The concern in his voice is yet another reason to worry uncontrollably. I sigh and offer a shrug.

“Not too great. My back is still killing me.”

Doctor Adams studies me for a few moments, probably picking apart the bags under my eyes and my pale skin. Worrying and lack of sleep are intertwined in my life. They always have been.

“We got your test results back this morning. The blood work revealed that you aren’t producing the number of white blood cells, red blood cells, or platelets that your body needs. Avalon, this is occurring because you have Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia.”

I have a hard time following the sentence at first. I learned growing up that there are certain moments you can’t decipher like the rest. These are the life-changing moments that we process differently because they define us completely. Suddenly, time is moving in slow motion, but not slow enough.

“Wait…. What are you saying?”

Asking for clarification is more like a last-fighting chance than anything. Maybe I heard him wrong. Maybe this is all just a big misunderstanding.

“Avalon, A.L.L is a very rare kind of cancer, and your’s has progressed to stage four while managing to mask any symptoms until now. This is possible, but it’s not common. Do you understand?” There it is again…. Another moment I can’t break down in the expected 30-second response window. What will I tell Jackson? What will I tell my mother?

We already lost Dad a few years back. I don’t think she could handle losing me, too.

The world seems more complex than it ever has before, and my mind races in a million different directions at once. I can hear Doctor Adams calling my name, but I’m stuck in a never-ending trance of fear and sorrow.

“How long?”

The question escapes me suddenly. The Doctor’s eyebrows arch as he processes my words.

“Well, there’s no certain answer but…”

“How long?” I interrupt, repeating the same question again. This time, Doctor Adams doesn’t miss a beat.

“Six months at best. At this stage, your odds aren’t great, but we do have a chemo pill you can take to increase your chances of survival. I recommend this option to most of my patients, especially the younger ones.”

Twenty-three. How can I only have six months left to live at twenty-three years old? Some people haven’t even finished college at my age. Somehow, life doesn’t feel real anymore.

“Could this chemo pill save me? Don’t give me a bullsh*t answer to make me feel better. Could this pill actually give me more time?”

Doctor Adams analyzes me thoroughly, most likely judging if I’ll break down completely after I hear the truth. In reality, I already know the answer.

“It’s possible, but not likely,” he says finally. My heart almost stops beating here and now. I can already hear my mother crying and Jackson pacing the room a million times, trying to find a glimmer of hope in this dark oasis. I came here expecting the worst, and this time, it actually happened.