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I’m sitting in a stiff-backed chair, listening to this person speak. According to the news I’ve just received, my reaction should be dramatic—hysterical, maybe—but all I can do is stare and breathe. I’m breathing, right? In. Out. In. Out. My life has been a roller coaster so far, and getting this piece of information so bluntly—so clinically, so undeniably true—I’m not even doubting the results. Yet my brain refuses to acknowledge it.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh? Did you hear me?”

The voice snaps me back to reality, and I blink the fog away. I should answer. I heard him. Every word. I understood the message, too, but I’m still struggling to force sound past the tightness in my throat. Finally, I rub my damp palms against my thighs and manage to say, “Thank you, Dr. Stevens, for your input and diagnosis. I’ll… get ready.”

He sighs softly. “Mrs. Cavanaugh, I’m really sorry we can’t do more, but the illness is so advanced that any treatment would be in vain. It would be better to focus on comfort now and make sure everything is in order.”

I have SCLC—Small Cell Lung Cancer. I’m dying, and there’s nothing I can do. My lungs are failing, and every struggle I’ve fought through feels meaningless because now I won’t be here to see the people I love accomplish their dreams. Why did this happen? The doctor says lung cancer usually comes from smoking. I smoked as a teenager, just to pass the time, but never daily. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe I was exposed to some chemical or gas and never realized it. I can’t remember anything like that. So what’s left? If you ask me, the only explanation is that God hates me and wants me gone.

I’ve always tried to be a good person—helping others, listening to their problems, offering advice when I could. And now my life is ending at thirty-eight. How can that be? Why? I have to go home and tell everyone I’m dying and that there’s nothing we can do to stop it or even slow it down. I never imagined this would be my ending.

My son is only twelve. How is he supposed to navigate life without me? Will he survive the loss emotionally? The thought alone makes my head spin. My mind grows foggier by the minute. I need to stop thinking.

I get into my car and drive without direction until I reach a quiet park outside the city. It’s midday, so the paths aren’t crowded. I step out and start walking.

I hadn’t noticed before how green the grass is or how beautifully the birds sing. I’m reacting like someone who knows she’s about to die—suddenly appreciating everything I once overlooked. Despair and regret crash over me in waves, threatening to drown me. I need to regain control of my emotions. I can’t fall apart like this.

I walk faster, trying to breathe deeply, but the cough starts again. That awful cough that began months ago and never truly stopped. I should have known something was wrong. I chose not to see it.

Now I’m facing the reality of being underground in less than three months.

What can I do? What can I change? Nothing. My body betrayed me, and neither I nor the doctors can fix it. We are fragile. Temporary. So why should I even try?

Maybe I shouldn’t tell my family. Maybe I should disappear somewhere far away and die alone. Involving them will only make it more painful, and I’ve always hated goodbyes.