I spent six days on death row. 

Since my parole, I have been thinking about bowling. Not that I’m an avid bowler, but I do remember from my bowling days, that despite being wigged out by nasty, overused, arch-lacking rental shoes, I always had a favorite play.  

For me, bowling was less about skill and more about blind luck hinging on the delight of having two turns. Here’s the scenario, turn one – you knock down three pins. The other seven stand erect and defiant at the end of the lane, mocking you, giving you the finger, saying, “Ha, hotshot, is that all you got?” And then, bam, with turn two, you can wipe those snarky smiles off their little pin faces. The redemptive roll. The score of the spare.

From a Thursday, when my husband and I stumbled from the gastroenterologist’s office, blinded by the sun of a too hot for autumn North Carolina September until the following Wednesday when the MRI results suggested a different prognosis, we zombied around, medically tazed by the news that my time might be measured in a few years if I got lucky, a few months if I didn’t.

Those six days were painfully slow for John and me. Our affairs are in order. Our marriage is strong. Our life is happy. We went to college parents’ day and didn’t tell our daughter, not yet ready to yank the rug of maternal security from her feet. We both exhibited symptoms of shortness of breath, abdominal pain, and sleeplessness, all coming from the shock of numbered days, not from the cancer.

At lunchtime on day six, we got the biopsy results. It wasn’t what was first suspected. It’s not great news. But it’s a parole of sorts and we joyfully took it. I believe that God changed things. I believe that prayer warriors moved the mountains. Second roll: the spare.

My tumors are an incidental find, meaning that while I was doing Pilates, running errands, eating kale instead of donuts, working a great job, raising children, drinking wine, cells were dividing at an above average rate, mutating without noise or warning and then cruising on over to have a go at my liver. I am lucky that they found it. Lucky that it’s neuroendocrine. Lucky that it’s 2018. Lucky that I am otherwise healthy. Lucky that I have a husband who has not been more than a few feet from me since this all went down. Lucky that I have insurance for tests and access to treatment. While there is a list of suck in all of this – the list of luck towers high above it.

Here is some of what I have learned so far:

The song is right, the sun will come up tomorrow. I could be here or not, but while I am here, with the sun shining it is my choice to do something with what I am given. I have thought about this with every single sunrise and sunset. Another good day.

People who truly care about you pray for you, call you, text you, and show up. And believe me, you can separate those who say they care from those who act.

Work matters less than life. 

Your news is often an invitation for others to tell you their cousin’s or grandma’s news. It is the downloading of all of this information, especially when their news ends with death that you have to walk away from. Dale Carnegie suggests filling one’s mind with peace to keep worry at bay. That will not work if you are hearing stories that end with, “Then the cancer ate up her brain and she died.” Lord have mercy.

Cancer scares people. As my daughter said, “Damn, Mom, if you have cancer, we are all doomed.” It does cause pause to think that my exercise every day, eat right, live abundantly lifestyle has yielded this diagnosis. There wasn’t anything that I did or didn’t do to equate to this sum. That is the loudest lesson of all, life is a gamble and in the middle of it all, you can get a shake down that will really get your attention.

Medical treatment is not for wussies. I almost didn’t make it through the coffin like MRI, the pelvic ultrasound operator should have bought me a drink first, and when they inject you with a med that arrives by courier in a titanium capsule, shit is fixing to get real.

There is still humor. God is still winking. My husband and friend, Charly, obsessively made everyone use the hospital hand sanitizer. I am thinking, I am here to have one of the ten tumors on my liver biopsied, but okay, I will also be vigilant about palm cleanliness. Still makes me giggle.

The future is still the future. All of this has been a big blow to our plans. John and I just bought our dream house in Beaufort, I am in the groove of my business having just bought a second Dale Carnegie territory, our youngest just left the nest for college. This has all felt so wrong and misplaced. We are executing around an intense recalibration of many things, with life setting the priority rather than work. While it feels true and right, I am scared.

It is okay to be scared. It is okay to cry. It is okay to ask for help and let people down and redefine commitments and use whatever resources you need to detangle yourself to breathe and live fully. 

I have never felt as though I am a victim. Whatever is destined to happen from this, it is through me rather than to me. I am a vessel.

I feel overwhelming gratitude that I am not facing the internet statistic, forever imbedded in my brain from web surfing during my week on death row, “Should the metastasized liver cancer be of lung origin, life expectancy is measured in months rather than years.” Reading this stat about your own life offers perspective. I feel bowling kind of lucky. I got a redemptive roll. I am beholden to the spare.