It’s Monday and I’m sitting in the waiting room at the doctors’ office. I decide to start to have a little one-on-one with God just in case there is one. I haven’t believed for so long, but the fear of death makes me wish for something more.

If you can hear me up there, maybe you can spare me. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll go to church every Sunday. I’ll give to charity instead of buying my favorite shoes. I’ll even never have sex again.

I wince at my stupidity. But at this point, I figure anything’s worth a shot.

“Ms. Gentile,” a woman calls out from the doorway and gets my attention.

I rise and walk heavy-footed toward her, dreading the next hour of my life. It feels like the march from death row to the gas chamber. As if, at the end of the hall, everything I know might vanish before my eyes and life will cease to exist.

The nurse leaves me alone and promises the doctor will be in to see me shortly. I walk around the room and read every poster, trying to keep my mind busy while I wait. I check my phone four times after I run out of reading material.

The fifth time I check the screen, there’s a message from Bruno.

Bruno: Hey, beautiful. I’m thinking of you.

I can’t stop my smile. The man brings out that side in me. I type a message, read it to myself, and then erase it. What can I say to him?

When he left the morning after my meltdown, I couldn’t find the right words to say to him. I’ve ignored him and tried to keep myself busy and forget him.

I’ve failed, of course.

I was able to ignore him and resist the urge to call him and ask him to come over, but the keeping myself busy part has become a problem. I can’t keep my mind off the fact I’m sick long enough to focus on anything else.

I feel perfectly fine—that’s the weird thing. I’m not overly tired. No more than anyone else my age who works long hours. I don’t have any of the typical symptoms. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I still hold on to a small glimmer of hope that Dr. Craig’s wrong about my diagnosis.

Just as I send Bruno a smiley face text because words just don’t feel right, the doctor walks into the room and all happiness evaporates.

“Ms. Gentile, I’m Dr. Snyder.” The man in the perfectly pressed lab coat holds out his hand to me, and I take it only because I don’t want to be an asshole.

“Hi.”

What else is there to say? I’m not here for a pleasant visit. I just want him to cut to the chase and tell me flat out if I’m going to live or die. My life hangs in the balance, and I don’t need to discuss the weather or any of that bullshit. The only thing that matters is if I can be cured.

He sits down and starts flipping through my file, studying every page with indifference and ignoring me. I try to read his facial expression and figure out what he’s about to say, but I get nothing. I sit on top of the sterile examining table, twisting my hands in my lap and kicking my legs back and forth to get rid of my nervous energy.

Rebecca begged to come with me, but I told her no. I couldn’t do it. I don’t want anyone around me when I hear the news. I need to be able to scream, cry, or fall apart without anyone I know seeing, especially Bec.

He closes the folder and rolls his stool closer to me before clasping his hands in his lap and looking at me with a serious expression on his face. “I’ve reviewed all the tests and I can confirm that it is acute leukemia. Based on the recommendations from my team, we’ve come up with a treatment plan that will give you the greatest chance of survival.”

People always say that four-letter words are the most offensive, but in reality, there are worse things you can hear. Survivor is one of them. It’s not that I don’t want to survive; I do, but I don’t want that label forever.

Survival means fighting, and I don’t know if I have it in me. I’m strong, but I don’t want to have to battle an invisible enemy. It’s going to be exhausting, and I won’t come out on the other side the same person I was weeks ago. I’d forever be Callista “The Survivor” Gentile.

“Okay.” I swallow down the bile that has started to rise in my throat.

“You’re still in the early stages. You didn’t have any symptoms because it hasn’t gotten to the stage that would cause symptoms. You’re very lucky it was detected so early.”

Lucky? How could he say such an absurd thing? The only way I’d be lucky is if the lab made a mistake and I didn’t have it at all. To say I’m lucky because it was caught early is like saying, “You’re lucky we only had to take half your leg and not the whole thing” to an amputee.

I feel tears threatening, but I push them aside and wrinkle my nose. “So now what?”

“First, we’ll do leukapheresis and then a course of chemotherapy. If there are still leukemia cells in your bone marrow after the chemo and leukapheresis, then we’ll start another course of chemo and possibly a stem cell transplant.”

I love how doctors talk to patients as if we know what the hell any of it means. I mean, I do because of my job and education, but he doesn’t know that.

I know what leukapheresis means. They’ll drain every ounce of my blood and try to clean the leukemia cells, which are in my white blood cells, before returning my blood back to me. It’s a temporary measure. Many times, it is used to help give the patient the best chance of remission while the chemotherapy is doing its job. And by that, I mean killing the good and bad cells inside me.

“We’re going to be aggressive in your treatment. You’re young and can handle it.”

It’s nice that he feels I can, but I’m not so sure. “So that’s it?”

“Yes. We’ll take it one step at a time. We need to schedule you for the leukapheresis and then start chemotherapy as soon as possible. Every day is precious, and time is critical.”

Working in a lab has put me on the other side of this battle. Dr. Snyder’s on the front lines. I wonder if he has grown immune to the struggles and anxiety this disease causes people on a daily basis. The news, no matter how “lucky” to hear it, is still devastating.

“Do you have any questions?” he asks as he rolls his stool back and grabs the folder from the counter.

“I don’t.” I know everything I need to about the treatment and my chances of survival.

“Nurse Stockton will be in shortly to discuss your hospital stay and bring you literature about what to expect.”

“Thanks.” Anger laces my voice, and I can’t hide it. I don’t feel cared about. I feel like a cow herded into a pen before the slaughter. I’m just another patient and not a human being. By the time I walk out of the medical building, I’m completely numb and the anger has vanished.

If I can make it five years with the cancer in remission, I’ll survive until old age, but five years is a fucking long time. Every day I’m going to wake up and wonder if it has returned and if it is slowly killing me. How can I do it without going completely mad?

I pound my fist on the floor of my apartment, laying my head down in the puddle of tears that has grown on the hardwood.

Why do I have to go through this?

It’s unfair.

Why me?

I can’t do this. I don’t have the will or the strength.

To lie in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines as they pump every ounce of blood out of me and return it to my body… I just can’t. Even if I make it through that, I’ll have to endure chemotherapy.

Doctors make it seem like medicine when it’s really poison. It kills everything—the good, the bad, and everything in between.

I could die, and I’m fucking pissed about it.

Who will even care besides Becca? I have a few friends, but other than them, I have no one. My parents are gone. I have no family. Who will visit my grave or attend my funeral?

I’d leave nothing behind. Just a fabulous shoe collection my friends would ravage before my body was even cold, let alone six feet under.

I have no one.

It’s better this way. I don’t want anyone else to be sad. I’ve had enough sadness and fear in my life for a small army.

I’m a complete mess.

I could die.

The thought paralyzes me.

I sob until I have nothing left, but I still can’t move. I check out the ceiling and try to catch my breath like a fish gasping for air.

I can hear my phone ringing in my purse that has fallen somewhere near the couch, but I don’t have the strength to crawl to grab it. I don’t want to talk to anyone anyway.

Focusing on a single spot, I lie there, transfixed by the nothingness that surrounds me.

I’m too young to die. People my age aren’t supposed to; it’s unnatural. I’d been sold on the fairy tale that I’d live a long life. I always thought I’d have more time, but I know I don’t have much left.

In forty-eight hours, I’ll check myself in to University Hospital to have the blood sucked from my body, along with the added bonus of my first treatment of chemotherapy.

I need more time. I’m not ready for everything to start.

Time is something I’ve always taken for granted. I’ve never thought about it. I always figured I’d have more of it and that it wasn’t in short supply. Little did I realize how precious it truly was until it was too late.

When I wake, I realize I’ve wasted more time I’ll never get back.

Would death be like sleeping? Just nothingness? I rarely dream. It’s as if I don’t exist when I sleep. Is that how it is going to be once I succumb to the cancer that is killing me?

I know the process won’t be like a dream, but once it is all over, is that how it’s going to be? I’ve never believed much in God, but for once in my life, I want there to be something else.

I can’t believe there’s life and nothing else. The thought freaks me out. I never want to fall asleep again because it reminds me too much of what could be coming for me. Nothingness. Darkness. Death.

Snot has dried on my cheek along with drool that has congealed on the hardwood floor while I slept. The old Callie’s gone and the new one is a mess.

I don’t want to leave my apartment. I can shut out the world when I’m here. I can pretend nothing else exists, especially cancer.

The ticking of the clock on the wall feels like a time bomb ticking away, counting the seconds left of my life. I cover my ears with my hands and try to drown out the sound, but I fail. When that doesn’t work, I scream until my throat burns.

Around midnight, I crawl to my feet and grab a glass of water to calm the fire burning in my throat. As I swallow down the cool tap water, I realize my phone is dead. The glass slips from my hand, falling to the floor and shattering into a million little pieces near my feet. My legs are unable to hold me, and my body slides down the cabinet. I sit in the glass bits and cry some more.

All I keep thinking is, why me? It’s not that I wish it on anyone else, but I want to know why I have to be the one going through this battle.

I curl my knees up to my chest and hold myself, slowly rocking back and forth. I sit like that for hours.

When the sun comes up and I realize I’ve wasted some more of the very thing I know is precious and in short supply, I decide it’s time to fight.