‘Last December, I lost the ability to write. I showed my husband my nonsensical scribble on our holiday cards. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me,’ I sobbed.’
I have months to live, perhaps two, perhaps some other number, the doctors won’t tell me. They can’t. They do not know. Instead, they talk about “response to treatment,” clinical trials, science with an aperture of hope.
Forty-four feels horribly young for a terminal diagnosis in an otherwise healthy, active body, and for glioblastoma, in particular, the cancer of Ted Kennedy and John McCain, old men in the sunset of life. It has been a long time since I have been considered young in a medical capacity ― me of the “geriatric” pregnancies. But here I am, young and old, losing my life minute by minute and my memory even faster.
Source: CHRIS NEWS MEDIA