I went to the DMV last week to apply for a handicapped-parking permit. For the record, this is not where you go to do this—you have to go to the state building downtown. I didn’t have enough battery life on my portable oxygen backpack, so I had turned it off, making my DMV experience even more “life-sucking” than usual. On my way out, the "Nebraskans for the Death Penalty" accosted me for my signature. In my lack-of-oxygen haze, I didn’t reply back with something clever and witty, although I should have said this: “I already have the death penalty, lady: it’s called metastatic breast cancer.”
This morning, Brian and I went to the doctor, and we were faced with the same scenario: the [cancer] death penalty. Going into the appointment, I knew that I was running out of chemo options, and my deteriorating breathing convinced me that the current regimen was probably not being very effective either.
What I did not expect to hear was such a short timeline. Last fall, when I was diagnosed with “metastatic” (stage 4—spread elsewhere—in my case, mostly to my lungs) breast cancer, my doctor told me I had maybe two months to live or I could do chemo. Obviously, I chose the chemo route, and, in the meantime, I managed to live my life according to my true “I CAN. I WILL!” style—taking on new experiences from skydiving to African safaris. While it wasn’t surprising, since I have now been completely dependent on an oxygen machine to breath, I did not like the fact that my current timeline was cut much shorter—to a week or two.
Despite facing three cancer diagnoses in the past five and a half years, cancer has never felt like a “death sentence” to me. Why? Because even though there were a lot of lethal injections involved, I always had my “inmates” to back me up. I know that I am very lucky to have the best friends, families, and supporters in the world. I love you all.
If Brian and I need anything, I promise we will ask for help.
I CAN. I WILL!
Andrea Kabourek
