I told Augustus the broad outline of my miracle: diagnosed with Stage IV thyroid cancer when I was thirteen.
(I didn’t tell him that the diagnosis came three months after I got my first period. Like: Congratulations! You’re a woman. Now die.)
It was, we were told, incurable. I had a surgery called radical neck dissection, which is about as pleasant as it sounds.
Then radiation. Then they tried some chemo for my lung tumors. The tumors shrank, then grew.
By then, I was fourteen. My lungs started to fill up with water.
I was looking pretty dead—my hands and feet ballooned; my skin cracked; my lips were perpetually blue.
They’ve got this drug that makes you not feel so completely terrified about the fact that you can’t breathe,
and I had a lot of it flowing into me through a PICC line, and more than a dozen other drugs besides.
But even so, there’s a certain unpleasantness to drowning, particularly when it occurs over the course of several months.
I finally ended up in the ICU with pneumonia, and my mom knelt by the side of my bed and said, “Are you ready, sweetie?”
and I told her I was ready, and my dad just kept telling me he loved me in this voice that was not breaking so much as already broken,
and I kept telling him that I loved him, too, and everyone was holding hands,
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