UCLA Told Me I Was Dying
Given only months to live in 2010
That morning, my oncologist sat with me, his tone unusually somber. He told me the imaging showed that the cancer was worse—it had metastasized to my bones, both lungs, lymph nodes, and soft tissue lobes. The staph infection made chemotherapy impossible, leaving no traditional options. With sadness in his eyes, he told me I likely had months to live.I walked on the beach as the sun began to lower and I felt I was going to lose it emotionally. I had stage 4 breast cancer,and tried radiation and was too sick from the the side effects and got an infection so they UCLA quit my treatment and my doctor told me I only had months to live. I just needed to come to terms with death, which required a private conversation with God.
One September day in 2010, I sat in a doctor’s office at UCLA and heard the words no one is ever ready for: the cancer was aggressive and spreading fast. It felt like all hope had been stripped away. I had just completed my 22nd radiation treatment, but I couldn’t stop coughing from a staph infection in my lungs. The infection had taken hold, and I felt weaker by the day.
That morning, my oncologist sat with me, his tone unusually somber. He told me the imaging showed that the cancer was worse—it had metastasized to my bones, both lungs, lymph nodes, and soft tissue lobes. The staph infection made chemotherapy impossible, leaving no traditional options. With sadness in his eyes, he told me I likely had months to live.
Hearing those words felt like my soul was being pulled out of my body. I was already enduring so much—my chest was raw and blistered from radiation, and I carried a fanny pack with a three-day supply of IV antibiotics for the infection in my lungs. The physical pain was overwhelming, but the fear and grief were unbearable.
When I got home from that appointment, defeated and terrified, my sister called to check on me. When she asked how I was doing, I reflexively said, “I’m fine.”
She paused. “Really?” she asked, her voice steady but skeptical.
In frustration, I told her the truth: “I’m going to die anyway, so what difference does it make what I do?” I was deep in the anger stage of cancer grief, feeling raw and broken.
My sister, being who she is, didn’t let me shut her out. She asked if I wanted to go to the beach, but I told her no. The burns on my chest from radiation made it impossible to imagine being out in the sun. The thought of exposing myself to the world felt unbearable. But my sister wasn’t taking no for an answer. She came over, picked me up, and drove me to the beach anyway.
That drive saved me.
I was crying, consumed by fear—not just of dying, but of the overwhelming pain I was already enduring. The physical and emotional weight of everything felt suffocating, and I didn’t know how to keep going. Yet somehow, my sister held it together. She played old 80’s tunes from our high school days, singing along to lighten the mood. As we drove down Kanan Dune Road toward Malibu, she sang to me, her voice pulling me out of my despair. Looking back, I don’t know how she managed it.
On that drive, I couldn’t stop thinking about time—how little I felt I had left. It terrified me. I cried with my head in my hands and told her, “Sis, people say that when it’s your time, you’ll be ready to go. But I’m not ready. I’m scared!”
She listened, her steady presence keeping me from falling completely apart. My sister knew how to nudge me back to the surface, and somehow, with music, laughter, and her relentless love, she managed to lift me out of that dark place.
By the time we reached the beach, I felt a little lighter. She got me to sing along to Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer.” At one point, I even hung my head out the window, feeling the wind on my face as I sang. Music has a way of doing that—taking you back to the happiest moments of your life.
At the beach, everything felt like a goodbye. Every cliff, tree, and bird seemed like they were bidding me farewell. My niece Madison, my sister’s daughter, played in the sand with her little bucket and shovel, her laughter filling the air. She had no idea what I was going through, but her innocence was a gift. She grounded me in the present moment, pulling me back whenever I started to spiral.
I couldn’t help but think how different that day might have been if I’d known about alternative cancer treatments. If I’d walked out of that doctor’s appointment with hope instead of fear, I imagine we would have built the grandest sandcastle together.
Later that afternoon, as the sun began to lower, I took a walk by myself. The weight of everything hit me again. I needed a moment alone, a conversation with God. I walked under the dock at Paradise Cove in Malibu, lay down on the sand, and stared up at the sky. It felt like the sky was falling closer, like I was becoming part of it. I’d never experienced anything like that before—just me, God, and the angels above.
I wore a long green maxi skirt and a white long-sleeved shirt to protect my burned skin from the sun. No blanket, no towel, just the clothes on my back. In that quiet moment, I didn’t feel alone anymore.
I realized then that even though I had been given a grim prognosis, my story wasn’t over. That day on the beach wasn’t a goodbye—it was a reminder that I still had time, even if I didn’t know how much. Time to fight, to love, and to find hope again.
It wasn’t the end, and I am grateful every day that my sister helped me see that. Sometimes, love is simply showing up when someone feels like giving up. That’s what she did for me, and it’s what carried me through the darkest moments of my life.
Excerpt "Grateful Heart"-Memoir of A Cancer Survivor
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