Book Chapter: The Idea of No Longer Existing
In my last post, I told you about the book I wrote during chemotherapy—Healthy People Get Cancer, Too—and why I eventually pulled it from the market. I mentioned a chapter about death that I said probably wouldn’t change much in a second edition. This is that chapter.
What you’re about to read was written at 3 AM on a phone, during months of steroid-fueled insomnia, by a woman sitting inside the fight of her life. These are not polished thoughts. They are real ones. I’m sharing them exactly as I wrote them.
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My biggest fear is wearing an ugly wig and having people say I look good to be dead.
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Death. It’s the only thing in life that’s guaranteed yet, it’s the one thing most of us really can’t accept or openly discuss. It’s considered morbid to do so. We sort of plan for it while believing deep in our minds it’s just an arbitrary preparation so we can feel like responsible adults. We buy life insurance and jokingly discuss the topic but never really think it’s something we’ll have to face until we’re well into our golden years. We might see a devastating news story about a car accident or a shooting and think to ourselves, “that’s so sad. My heart goes out to that family.” But we never think that family will be us. We’re so far removed from it. When I think about them, I wonder if they felt the same way prior to their unfortunate trauma. Either way, I wish no family had to endure grief until they’ve lived a full and happy life. That’s not how it works, though. Prepared or not, it hurts because death means losing total access to someone you’ve been able to love for so long. We lose everything about them except what memories we hold in our hands and hearts. The rest is just us giving ourselves a pep talk to maintain something that looks like sanity. “They’ll always be here with us,” “they’re in a better place now.” This may all be true but honestly, the pain is still there. The selfish part of us wants our loved ones with us forever. Sadly, that isn’t how God set things up to work.
Maybe I should only speak for myself. In my case, I’ve had to consider all of this from the perspective of my loved ones. I’ve had to think of how they would manage life without me. I know they would eventually be fine. They have no other choice and life would have to go on. I would want it to. I know it sounds a bit dark to think this way when I had a pretty good chance at remission however, I had to consider all possibilities. Reading this book will be the first time my family knows my thoughts on the topic because they wouldn’t hear it. The only option for them was my survival. My husband was firm on not discussing it mainly because, I think, he didn’t believe it deserved our energy. He was right. Nonetheless, my mind secretly wandered there as I learned about stories of those who weren’t as fortunate as I had hoped to be.
My cancer diagnosis immediately changed how I thought of life. Although I struggled with accepting this to be my countdown to death—because it wasn’t—I was forced to consider it. Sure, I planned to fight it with everything inside of me, but I’ve also thought about death a lot during my many nights of delusional insomnia. Sleep was a distant memory. All I had was… time. I used most of it to think. I constantly wondered how much of it I had left and how could I make the best of it.
Suddenly, it had a completely new meaning. It’s the most precious commodity in the universe. Even the richest man can’t buy more or cheat it. It doesn’t care if you’re gay, straight, African-American, or Asian. It’s limited so you’re best to use it wisely.
I have a new respect for it, and I ration it carefully. Now, I think twice before giving my time to anyone. I automatically think to myself, “is this a good use of it?” Or “is this a person who truly deserves it?” That matters to me… who I spend it with. It’s mine so I get to choose and that’s a powerful thing. I’m sure there are a few people who don’t want my time, which works in my favor. I don’t expect them to find value in it. That’s my job. Those with whom I spend it with understand we share in each other’s lives as an expression of love.
My circle is smaller, my awareness heightened. I like my peace uninterrupted and I guard my energy fiercely. If I believe for a second that someone who means no good wants my time, I won’t give it to them. I’ve lost the desire to oblige. I’d much rather lie in bed with my husband binge-watching a show on Netflix or enjoying nature with my son. Plus, I have come to enjoy the simple things like a car ride full of laughter with my sister or my besties. That’s how I choose to spend my time. Even if you’re blessed enough to have more, one day you’ll look up and wonder where it all went. It waits for no one. Thankfully, I still have plenty left and I’m in no way ready to let cancer take it all away. On the other hand, I wanted my final wishes to be clear in the event something went wrong.
I’ve paid my respects at a few funerals as a child and struggled emotionally with every single one of them. Who doesn’t? I know, the ceremonies weren’t about me, but I was extremely sensitive so watching others cry made me do the same. Even as an adult, I find them terribly hard to bear, maybe it’s the realization that the only thing left of them is the shell that used to hold their beautiful souls. This image is the final impression we have and that breaks my heart. I remember touching my great Uncle Wardell’s hand and the one thing that stood out to me was how cold it was. I looked closely and noticed how tight his lips were sewn shut. I can still see that image as if it happened five minutes ago. Aside from the emotional pain, I’ve watched so many families suffer the financial burden of having to suddenly come up with money they didn’t have or spend insurance money that could have relieved debt left behind. I never want that for my loved ones.
I consider myself prideful and would never want my funeral to be the last image my family has of me. There are so many happy and beautiful memories they can have instead. Any one remotely close to me could tell you my death wishes in detail. They all think I’m crazy but if I were to pass away tomorrow, they know exactly what to do. I know one thing for sure… it will be hard for them to think of me and not laugh at something ridiculous. I’m still alive and they can barely do it now.
I just don’t want everyone crying over my body. The thought of that is unbearable. Plus, I think too much about the logistics of it all. Ridiculous, I know. I never picture the person who would handle my final “beautification” as someone I would want doing my hair and makeup under any normal circumstance. I barely wear makeup now and I’ve totally embraced my short hair. My biggest fear is wearing an ugly wig and having people say I look good to be dead. I’d much rather have a cruise or memorial service in my honor. A party of sorts. That way, people can enjoy themselves and tell happy stories about me. My ashes? Well, I specifically want a Glad-lock press-n-seal plastic container with the blue top. No fancy urns or mausoleums for me. Take my money and start a college fund for low-income families, start a business with it, or donate it directly to families of children battling cancer. I prefer the latter. They are the most vulnerable.
More broadly, I consider the universe and how vast it is. It’s much bigger than any of us. We all, in some way, contribute to what happens in the world around us so our existence has a purpose. We may not understand it or what God’s plan is but that’s for us to figure out. That takes introspection. Some of us leave without knowing our true purpose and we ignore the voice we hear guiding our spirits, myself included. I’ve been given a second chance and I vow to listen. Giving. That’s what I hear when my mind is quiet. What will I give before I leave? If you think about it, there is so much we have to offer, not monetary, but of ourselves. Prior to cancer, I’ve donated blood. I wanted to be an organ and bone marrow donor, but I no longer can. That’s heartbreaking. So, I have to find another way to contribute to the world.
How will I be remembered? What will be my legacy? If I work hard enough, I’ll be able to give to my son all I was missing. I want him to think outside of himself. How he does this is up to him but at least I’ve planted the seed.
Now that I’ve shared my cringe-worthy inner thoughts, let me just say how blessed I am this was all just a close encounter. It was certainly a wakeup call to remind me not to take my life and the people in it for granted. I also appreciate the power of “now” and how expensive procrastination is. I still have work to do here and God isn’t quite done with me yet. I’m listening.
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Seven Years Later
I told you I wouldn’t change much about this chapter. I meant it.
Reading it now—seven years in remission, building a company, married to a man who still won’t entertain the conversation about the Glad-lock container—I don’t cringe the way I do with other parts of the book. This chapter wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t angry. It was honest. And the woman who wrote it at 3 AM, running on steroids and no sleep, got something exactly right: time is the only thing that matters, and how you spend it is the most important decision you’ll ever make.
What’s different now isn’t the philosophy. It’s the proof.
When I wrote this, I was rationing my time because I didn’t know how much I had left. Today, I ration it because I know exactly what I want to do with it. The fear is gone. The urgency remains. And that urgency is what drives everything I’m building with Earthkiss.
I wrote that I’d been given a second chance and I vowed to listen. That what I heard, when my mind was quiet, was giving. I asked myself: what will I give before I leave?
I’m answering that question now. Every single day.
The woman who wrote this chapter couldn’t donate blood anymore. She couldn’t be an organ or bone marrow donor. She was looking for another way to contribute. She just didn’t know yet that the answer would be a company built on the very things that helped her survive—cellular health, functional mushrooms, resilience as a daily practice—designed for women going through the exact transition her body forced her into early.
I said God wasn’t done with me yet. Turns out, He was just getting started.
The chapter about death stays. Not because I’m proud of being morbid. Because I’m proud of being honest. And because somewhere, right now, there’s a woman lying awake at 3 AM with a diagnosis she didn’t expect, wondering if it’s okay to think about the things no one wants to talk about.
It’s okay. I thought about them too. And I’m still here.
Your Turn
Have you ever created something from a painful place and then outgrew it? That’s not failure. That’s growth. The question is: are you ready to go back and finish what you started? I’d love to hear your story. Drop a comment or send me a message—I read every one.