I carried it to the desk and set it down, just stood there staring at it. Part of me knew—knew—that opening it wouldchange everything, would shatter whatever remained of the life I thought I’d been living.
But I’d already come this far.
I opened it.
The first page was an MRI scan.
My brain. A cross-section of my own brain.
And there, in the temporal lobe—a mass. Dark and foreign, taking up space where it shouldn’t be.
A tumor.
I had a brain tumor.
My legs buckled. I collapsed into Michael’s desk chair, the folder spilling across the wood.
I forced myself to pick up the next page, medical terminology I barely understood swimming in front of my eyes. But certain words stood out, impossible to miss.
Patient: Claudette Specter, DOB: [date]
Diagnosis: Glioblastoma Multiforme – Grade IV.
Location: Temporal and parietal lobes
Status: Inoperable
Prognosis: 4-6 months median survival from diagnosis
The date of the diagnosis read ten months ago.
Recommended treatment: Palliative care only. Symptom management. Quality of life focus.
Three to six months. I was already past that.
I should already be dead.
The words on the page blurred as my hands shook so badly the paper rattled.
A bolt of headache struck to me. I could see it. Feel it, like a dam had been burst open in my skull.
Dr. Rivera’s office with its beige walls that felt like they were closing in. Diplomas on the wall behind his desk. The clock that seemed too loud, ticking away seconds I didn’t have.
My parents on either side of me, their hands gripping mine so tight it hurt.
Dr. Rivera’s mouth moving, forming words I’d known were coming but still wasn’t ready to hear.
The decision to go to Vegas. To escape. To do something—anything—that felt like living instead of dying.
The wedding in that chapel.
The drive to the desert to watch the sunrise.
The seizure that had stolen everything.
Waking up in the hospital not knowing any of it—not remembering I was dying.
I was dying!
