had spent years of my life counting calories, exercising regularly, drinking 60 ounces of water a day, not smoking, drinking a little bit too much but feeling like it was well-earned, sleeping eight hours a night, being a productive member of society, taking care of myself, taking care of people around me in need of care, and here I was: dying of fucking cancer anyway.
The radio was blaring pop hits and I was singing along. Life as usual, just another day, driving home from a doctors appointment.
I went through the drive thru at McDonalds and ordered a Big Mac, a large fries, and a large Coke. I ate all of it, barfed out the foot-opening between my half-opened door and the door frame, and then drove the rest of the way home. My phone still wasn’t ringing.
I reached my home, parked my responsible car in its parking spot, nodded to the doorman on my way in to the lobby, checked my mail, took the elevator up to my modest apartment, unlocked my door, walked in, and sat on the door with my back against the inside of my door.
There were lots of people I should be telling. Stage 4 Kidney Cancer has about an 8% 5-year survival rate, so asking for prayers or being told to fight would seem crude. Should I post something vague about it on Facebook and wait for people to follow up? Should I not tell anybody and just disappear soon? Should I call? Or text? Should I SnapChat it with a cute little doggy filter on?
I went into the kitchen to look for some Kraft Macaroni & Cheese – knowing I didn’t have any – and ended up settling for a pizza ordered from GrubHub with garlic bread and a 2-liter of coke on the side.
I’m dying, I thought, I can do whatever I want.
I turned on Netflix and watched Sex & the City until my pizza arrived.