A Meeting on the Chemo Ward Changed My Perspective on Life

Meeting someone in the chemotherapy infusion room changed Annette's perspective on life.

Early one morning, my father picked me up from my house and drove me to the cancer center. It was infusion day. I felt fine, but the chemo made me sick afterward. I grappled with dying of cancer — a peaceful death — or living in pain and agony from the chemo drugs.

I walked like a prisoner walking towards the electric chair. My father walked fast, wanting the experience of his youngest daughter going through pain to be over quickly. His motto is, “Bad streets are better walked swiftly.” But this was my lousy street, not his; I wanted to take in whatever design the hallways of the cancer center had. Sadly, we made it to the clinic, and I was called back with my father, who told me jokes about his life. The joke of that day was how he drank prune juice before taking me to the cancer center and ran to the bathroom every ten minutes.

Back in the little room, I was placed with a patient who was terminal. She was an older woman, and I was only 33 years old. I had a 3-year-old daughter and an 11-year-old daughter. My husband had left me when I was diagnosed, but I stayed living in the same house with him because my situation was pretty bad. I had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of stage 3 breast cancer: no family history, just bad luck.

I made peace with my life and just accepted the fact that I was going to die; then I met this woman.

She said, “Hi, I’m terminal.” She didn’t give a name, just “terminal.” I said, “Hi, I’m Annette.” She said, “I am dying soon. I don’t know how to drive; I never had a career.” She then looked at me and said, “You do know that you will die of this disease; everyone dies.”

My father immediately got up and walked swiftly to the front desk, asking for a transfer to another room. I could hear his banter on Terminal. The thing was that my father didn’t know that I already had made peace with what was taking over my body and turning my perfect glass house upside down.

One thing she said struck me hard, and it was not what people would think. What struck me was, “Everyone dies.” I thought, jeez, that’s true, so why am I obediently walking alongside an electric chair prisoner? That changed my mindset. I analyzed my life as I was transferred to a room with my father. It’s true. Everyone born eventually dies. No one knows when, so why not enjoy the ride? Terminal gave me a new view of my situation. It changed my perspective on life.

Once home, I didn’t lay in my bed for a week; I instead sat outside to look at the birds and see my daughters play in the pool. I was in pain, no doubt, but I made do and decided to fight. I bought coloring books and colored with my girls. We saw Barbie movies into the night. I learned how to cook new healthy foods when possible; my mother typically cooked for us. I lost my job because of the illness, so I enrolled in Temple University and got a degree in writing. I divorced my husband and moved to a new house with my girls.

My then 11-year-old is now 27 years old, a Master’s degree recipient and married. My baby 3-year-old is now a 19-year-old at Temple University studying environmental science. By changing my mindset, I changed my trajectory. I will enjoy this ride until the end.

My name isn’t terminal. I am Annette. I am not defined by the illness; I am defined by my triumphs.

My advice to someone going through this is: "I understand the situation. Let’s cry for two minutes. Shed your tears, release your screams, kick and punch a pillow. Now clean your face, straighten yourself and let’s start the fight.”

This post was written and submitted Annette Cruz. The article reflects the views of Cruz and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, don’t forget to subscribe to CURE®’s newsletters here.