how close he was. He seemed not to be able to see this and perpetuated the delusion to himself as well as to his more naïve blog readers. I was and am disgusted by the lies. Perhaps for many, lying is the only way to get through the day and face death, but I knew that I wasn’t one of those people. I wanted to face my death with honesty, with eyes wide open, with understanding and courage even amid the fear, and, I hoped, with some newly gained wisdom. And so I started writing in search of my truth, to gain that understanding and wisdom of what it means to live and die, of what it is to live fully and unwind our individual miracles consciously. I discovered so many others who were secretly looking for their truths, who wanted to explore with me not just the darkness, fear, and tragedy, but also the joy and beauty of living and dying.
The beginning of the miracle of life, the development of the fetus in the womb and then its entry into the world, is associated with wonder and beauty. How unfortunate it is that we all lack the cognition to appreciate that beauty that is the creation of our individual miracle of life. I would have loved to witness my own creation and birth. Now I’m left with witnessing my own death; I have the cognition for that, and as horrible as this disease has become, I hope that I will have the cognition for that, that the complex workings of my brain will be the last functions to shut down. It is hard to find any beauty in dying, any poetic ending to the miracle of my life.
Seven months ago, I failed the second clinical trial in which I had participated and the third experimental treatment overall. It was particularly devastating because the trial had for a couple months showed dramatic efficacy—and then it didn’t. The scans revealed doubling and even tripling of certain abdominal and pelvic tumors, a clear portent of obstructions and blockages and eventual death by starvation, unless my lungs or liver failed first from their tumor burdens. I was sure I would be dead within several months. That was the prognosis my oncologist gave me after a five-minute disclaimer. One small part of me was relieved to have the torture end, to finally embark on the next adventure. But mostly I spent the time during what would be my last summer—the summer of 2017—grieving intensely, crying every day for two weeks, realizing again for the umpteenth time with a renewed, intense sadness all the big and small moments I would miss in my daughters’ lives—the graduations and weddings and music recitals and fights with friends—as well as all the shattered dreams that my husband and I had once nurtured—a vacation home in Tuscany upon retirement, more travel around the world. You would have thought that I’d never grieved for any of this in the preceding four years.
But there was something new that I did truly mourn for the first time, as I felt my body’s unprecedented deterioration as it struggled to continue to operate after four years of surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, and other experimental treatments, and the undeniable fact of the cancer’s progression. Abdominal pain had me permanently hunched over despite the opiates. Bleeding resulting from the cancer’s spread to my uterus and vagina was a constant visual and graphic reminder of the cancer. General weakness made me gratefully squat during the short elevator rides to and from my apartment floor when no one else was around. A two-minute trip to the bank became a monumental outing that required mental preparation and then physical and mental stamina. And food—well, that was especially upsetting. I used to love eating, this fundamental affirmative act of life, even through years of chemotherapy. And now I couldn’t stand the sight of food, nor could I muster the energy or desire to cook, which I once enjoyed tremendously.
No doubt my body’s rejection of this basic need and joy in life was a sign of its desire to not live anymore. I used to be so strong, naturally muscular, and I augmented that natural strength with frequent intense workouts. I used to lug thirty pounds of groceries from Trader Joe’s on my back. I used to be able to carry one baby on my back and one in my arms and go up and down stairs. What happened to