I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO TELL YOU. YOU’RE GOING TO DIE. SOON.

Harsh words, I know. Now imagine hearing them as an 11-year-old.

The doctor’s bedside manner was…umm…lacking.

January 20, 1991. That day, another scar was added.

The first came a few weeks after my 11th birthday. I broke my hip playing softball.

Scratch that. I sustained a severe leg injury playing softball. The ER staff refused to do x-rays at the time. Apparently, radiation to the pelvis of a prepubescent girl is bad for her health.

You know what? So is walking and running on an undiagnosed broken hip for 3 months.

But I digress.

The day of my cancer diagnosis, I was given an expiration date.

The doc refused to budge – he was certain I had six weeks max.

So, we got a second opinion. A week later. He agreed.

Oops. There’s a week wasted.

Two weeks later, with the clock ticking, we heard something new.

Clinical trial. Surgery. Chemo.

All scary words filled with hope.

Was it easy? Of course not.

It was terrifying. It was exhausting. It was traumatic.

I listened, alone, as my roommate took her final breath.

I woke up while intubated and tethered to an OR bed.

I set a personal record for the longest number of consecutive hours vomiting.

14, if you’re curious.

My hair fell out. My weight dipped dangerously low. My mobility diminished until it was nonexistent. Eventually, I learned to walk again.

I lived in a constant state of fear. I dreaded being left alone. I was in pain 24/7.

I begged for the pain to go away. I prayed to a god I was unsure of. I was desperate for relief.

Every moment added a scar to the pile.

It was hard. Unbearable, at times. And I’m so thankful it happened to me.

Having an expiration date forces you to see life with new eyes.

Even after a successful bone transplant, 18 months of weekly chemo (3-5 treatments per week), and numerous blood transfusions, life was uncertain.

Recurrence and metastasis were possibilities. Fractures of the surgical site proved to be a reality.

Even today, there’s a significant chance of femoral artery hemorrhage and amputation.

It is what it is.

I’m certainly not going to stop chasing adventure simply because of a little – okay, huge - risk.

There’s so much more that come with intensive chemo treatments as a child:

Cardiac issues such as a heart murmur.

Infertility. I mean, there’s a reason we only have fish.

Autoimmune disorders. Hey, Raynaud’s, I’m lookin’ at you.

Progressive joint and bone deterioration.

Respiratory issues. I’m not on 3 different asthma meds for kicks.

Increased likelihood of a new cancer diagnosis.

Two of the chemo drugs I was on have been pulled from the market.

It can be a never-ending laundry list.

But this list cannot stop joy. Or pride. Or curiosity. Or possibility.

It cannot minimize what I’ve accomplished in the “six weeks” I had to LIVE nor can it take away the additional 1,716 weeks I have LIVED.

I know it’s cliché, but what if we all lived like we were dying?

What would you do? What would you want to accomplish? How would you get through your day?

Me? It’s one limping step at a time. It’s setting goals so big they frighten me. It’s doing things that make me question my sanity. It’s living life covered in scars and being so damn proud, it’s palpable. It’s living life with curiosity and expectation.

Curiosity, expectation, and music.

Here’s what I’m listening to today as I celebrate Alive Day No. 33:

Alive Day Playlist on Spotify