My Diagnosis May Be Terminal, But I Refuse to Live Terminally

When I was diagnosed with cervical cancer, I knew I was going to be fine—sterile, but fine. When I was diagnosed with mouth cancer, I knew I would be fine—toothless, but fine. However, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my certainty began to fade.

A different kind of diagnosis

My confidence faltered not from a lack of faith, but because I knew this diagnosis was different. My oncologist looked into my eyes and admitted, "You have triple-negative, stage 3 breast cancer, and we don't have a cure. Even if it goes into remission, it will likely return—and come back with a vengeance." She paused, then shared something deeply personal: "Mine did, and I know I won't survive it."

I took a deep breath, looked her in the eyes, embraced her, and whispered, "I know you won't, but I'm glad you're here with me right now." She held me tightly, wept for a brief moment, and then pulled herself together to offer me a bag of M&Ms. As we said goodbye, I knew it would be the last time I saw her. She passed away two weeks later. That brief encounter offered me a sobering glimpse into what lay ahead on my journey with triple-negative breast cancer.

Facing a metastatic diagnosis

The moment I learned the cancer had metastasized, my heart sank. I didn't fully understand what stage IV meant at the time; all I felt was a sudden sense of impending doom. My whole world turned upside down, as if an internal 8.0 earthquake had shattered everything around me, leaving only a cracked foundation behind.

My doctor delivered the news with profound compassion. With tears in her eyes and a trembling voice, she held my hand and said, "Honey, your MRI, PET scan, and blood tests all show that the cancer has metastasized."

As she explained where the new spots were and detailed our next steps, I began to shut down. Her mouth was moving and my ears were open, but I couldn't process a single word. I stood up, thanked her, and walked toward the door. She stopped me, gently asking me to sit back down, take a breath, and figure out our next move together.

Processing medical overload

Deep down, I knew my instinctual next move: act as if this were nothing more than another unwelcome medical betrayal. I entered this world weighing a mere one and a half pounds, facing health complications severe enough to test anyone's resolve. This doctor's visit felt familiar, yet heavier—this time, I feared the story wouldn't have a happy ending.

I left the clinic and essentially disappeared for six months. I ignored calls and referral letters—anything that reminded me of my diagnosis. It wasn't denial; I simply lacked the emotional bandwidth to handle the overload.

Choosing how to live

My return to the hospital wasn't by choice. When I struggled to breathe, I had to return to the place I dreaded most. True to form, that visit brought more difficult news: double pneumonia and sarcoidosis.

A continuous stream of hard reports can leave you feeling emotionally paralyzed and exhausted from fighting. But I've learned that receiving a terminal diagnosis doesn't mean your life has to stop. Today, I focus on living in the present: finding joy where I can, loving deeply, forgiving frequently, writing, and enjoying simple distractions. My situation may be terminal, but that doesn't mean I have to live terminally.