Live like you were dying: an inside peek to a changed perspective

We’ve all heard the phrase, “Live like you were dying.” It gets tossed out in casual conversation and was further coined by Tim McGraw’s infamous song. But have you ever thought about what that truly looks like for you? Have you reframed your mind to think about what would happen if you came down with cancer or an incurable disease?

The last two months have been a whirlwind for me. Upon returning from El Salvador, I found a large lump. I knew it was not normal and not right for my body. After calling the doctor, they wanted to see me the same day, and I gave up my afternoon to head to the appointment. Confirming it was abnormal, they wanted me to have testing done right away. Unfortunately, the Fourth of July was the following day, so they could not get me in for scans until the morning of July 5^th. I spent the rest of that day and the holiday in a haze. I viewed life I little differently. I didn’t tell anyone about my newfound issues at this point, I just let myself wallow in the anxiety that consumed me.

On my drive to Dayton for my niece’s birthday party, a route I have driven at least twice a month for nearly 15 years, I noticed the beauty of the Ohio landscape. I have overlooked it a million times and have said “it’s an incredibly boring drive with nothing but cornfields.” But that day, it looked lush. As I talked to family and friends at the party, I kept my secret from them but thought about how much each of them meant to me. On my way home, I couldn’t help but notice the way the setting sun hit the fields, how beautiful the barns were, and how much I loved this landscape of Ohio, my home. My eyes were rosy for this place, family, and friends I loved so dear.

After a night of panicking, I showed up for my scans the next morning. What had failed to be revealed to me prior to the appointment – which I became quite thankful for later – was that my scans were in the Cancer Center. I am thankful to the lady who scheduled my appointment for leaving that out, as my anxiety levels were already great without that knowledge. But upon arriving, I saw that word – CANCER – and immediately became disheartened. I was only 32 years old and had to park in patient parking at the Cancer Center – this couldn’t be right. This wasn’t my plan.

As I sat in the waiting room, I watched a multitude of women get called back for their appointments. How humbling it was to be in that room and know why each of us were there. The longer I sat, the more the word cancer began to haunt me. After waiting over an hour, frantically wondering why everyone had been called back and I was the only person staying put, a lady came out and shared with me that they were wanting more scans and waiting on my doctor to fulfill the prescription. I wallowed in my angst for another hour, letting that word fully sink in.

Alas, I had my scans and an ultrasound done by the techs. A bit later, a doctor came in, perky as ever, to tell me that the lump was “probably benign”, and they’d see me again in six months to rescan again to check. It’s hard to explain why, but I’ve never felt worse about a doctor. She was perky and happy and didn’t seem to take it seriously. She was in my room under two minutes. She never set eyes on the area or tried to talk to me about it. I’m sure she deals with this routinely, but to me this was a big deal and I didn’t feel like she understood that.

As I left the facility to head back to work, hours after I planned on being back, I couldn’t think about anything other than the words “probably benign.” What does that mean? She didn’t tell me any information. We were going to do nothing for six months? What if I had cancer? Why wouldn’t we get a biopsy to find out more? Start treatments if it was cancer or remove it if it was not? Why would we simply do nothing? I despised that doctor for not giving me more information. I needed to know more and understand the plan. The anxiety that began in me days before manifested into a full-blown panic for the next few weeks. I was consumed with reading about tumors and protocol and what the term “probably benign” really meant — a 3 on a scale of 0-5, these tumors are likely benign but due to size and density can potentially have malignant tendencies or turn malignant in the future. Unsettling.

During these weeks of panic, I viewed life a little differently. I truly felt something was wrong with my body — who knew what was next? At first, in my overwhelm, I shut absolutely everyone out, wallowing in my own pity. I didn’t respond to people, I couldn’t get off the couch, I could barely get by. I didn’t know how to tell them and felt disingenuous if I didn’t share what was consuming me, so I closed myself off to the world. However, during this time, I also revisited my bucket list. I set a date to go skydiving. I began planning my next trip. I started thinking about taking a sabbatical. If I had cancer or something seriously wrong with me, one thing was for damn sure: I was going to see more of this big, beautiful world and take in all its goodness. I was not going to waste any time.

After a week or two of despair, I attempted to shift my mindset. I prioritized the community and people that have been my support system. I took relationships deeper, opened up to some newer friends, and was vulnerable about what I was facing. I began thinking forward to all the dreams I wanted to realize that I hadn’t prioritized in years because I was “too busy” or assumed there would be another time to pursue them. I made more time for family and appreciated the joy and goofiness that they bring to my life. Selfishly, I made a choice not to tell them because I didn’t want to worry them. I love them dearly and didn’t want them to panic the way I had been. But through this time, I prayed harder, loved deeper, became more vulnerable, and more clearly discerned the path in which the Lord was leading me. I prayed for the Lord to reveal that path to me and use me in whatever way He wanted for His purpose.

Though I saw life differently, I still did not have peace. Anxiety consumed me. The thought of cancer weighed on me so heavy, and I knew I could not wait six months for an answer. I could not go without peace for six more months. After much discernment, I decided to get a second opinion and spend a few days at the beach alone to quiet my mind and restore my soul. So, I scheduled another appointment, headed to Texas, and forced myself to calm down and sit in silence for a few days. It was good for me, and the contemplative prayer time was invaluable. My body and brain relaxed for the first time in a month.

I remained calm until my appointment, where I was met by a doctor who offered incredible tenderness and care. She truly cared about my case and me as a patient; that was immediately felt walking into her office. After spending an hour with me and going over every possibility, we agreed to biopsy two different areas that were abnormal and to drain the large cyst I had originally found. I hadn’t even known from my last doctor that the lump I found was not the questionable area — that was simply a fluid-filled cyst they could drain. I remained calm in the week I waited for my biopsy and throughout the procedure — I trusted God had prepared me. But when my biopsy and follow-up scans were complete, as I changed my clothes and reminisced on what had just happened, I immediately became very emotional. I couldn’t leave the office fast enough to get fresh air and alone time, and instantly fell apart the moment I stepped outside. The procedure that just happened became very real as I had bandages and ice packs secured to my body. Once again, I questioned how I was here at 32 years old and, once again, I had to play the waiting game on test results.

There are two sides to the waiting game for me: anxiety, wallow and pity, or frantically planning experiences and time with family and friends to keep me busy. This week, anxiety won and overtook my brain. As I waited for test results, the weight I carried grew by the minute. Yet, things around me grew rosier again. I appreciated having dinner with my parents. I enjoyed some one-on-one time with a new friend. I appreciated the little things.

Today, at 4:00 pm on a Friday, I got the results: the biopsy confirmed I have two benign tumors which have an incredibly low chance of turning malignant. They do not need to be removed, but we will scan again in six months to monitor and make sure nothing has changed. Essentially, they are not of concern — I do not have cancer. Today, I got good news.

The relief that flooded me after that conversation was immense. Peace filled my heart the more I thought about it, and all my focus immediately shifted to my skydiving plans for the following day. I may have been healthy, but my viewpoint changed over the past few months. I no longer wanted to complete monotonous tasks that weren’t important in the scheme of life; I wanted to spend my life, especially weekends, accomplishing my goals and checking things off my bucket list. No days were guaranteed. I wanted to live fully and be present. I wanted to experience this incredible world. I wanted to grow closer with my family. I wanted to go even deeper with my friends. I wanted to travel and serve and love others. I wanted to be ALIVE. Today, that has a whole new meaning.

Are you living your life fully alive, or are you half asleep, going through the motions? Has the monotony of your daily tasks overtaken your joy? Have you forgotten to set dreams and goals, or forgotten to pursue them? Have you taken the people who care about you for granted? Have you put your struggles in the hands of the Maker? Have you lived your life in accordance with His Word?

A month and a half ago, in the midst of anxiety and unknown, I set a skydiving date with a friend. Today, I received good test results; tomorrow, I go skydiving. The Lord has perfect timing. Tomorrow, I celebrate the first day of living fully alive while not wallowing in self-pity. Tomorrow, I celebrate the beautiful life God has graced me with. Tomorrow, I thank God by not taking for granted the life He graciously bestowed upon me.

Thank you, Lord, for the life I have failed to celebrate these last 32 years. Please help me to honor you by not wasting another day.