At 32 years old, I was given 16 months to live. On an ordinary Tuesday morning in November, an ultrasound detected 12 lesions on my liver that would soon be confirmed as stage 4, incurable ocular melanoma.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. Just one year earlier, I had become a cancer survivor in 22 days. A single tumor was contained in my eyeball and a biopsy of the cells gave me the best possible outcome: There was a less than 2% chance of metastatic disease.
But somebody has to be the 2%.
My oncologist said I had one FDA-approved treatment option, and I trusted her. I didn’t have time to get a second opinion. In the 16 months she predicted I had left if I agreed to the treatment she suggested, I needed to get my affairs in order and explain to my precious nephews and niece why their (favorite) auntie wouldn’t live to see them get their drivers’ licenses, graduate or get married.
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