When I was diagnosed with stomach cancer back in 2016, I didn’t feel like I had cancer. A lady who worked at a store I shopped told me she had cancer. She feared the pain of having cancer more than death.

As the months went by and my body got weaker and weaker, my apartment mate became afraid she would come home and find me dead on the couch. In April of last year I reached the point where I qualified for a resident bed in the local hospice home. All I had to do now is die. That should happen in a weak or so.

I lived at the hospice home one year. Medicare yanked my hospice benefits because I was still living after six months. Medicaid still paid my room and board at the hospice, but my bed was needed for another terminal person. So, with the help of a friend, I moved into my present abode. If my cancer got active again, I could go back to the hospice.

Physically, my time at the hospice home left me skin and bones, not able to walk or stand for too long, and needing to use a cane with the little toes on it. When shopping I have to use an electric cart and friends help me by pulling items off the shelves.

The nurse in the link hated to be called a cancer survivor. And I wonder if I have suffered enough to be a cancer survivor. I am two years into the disease and there may be relapses ahead for me. The medical literature gives me a five to fifteen percent chance of living until 2021. But life is to be lived a day at a time and it is a gift from God. He will call me home on His timeline.


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