After the Doctor says you have six months to live.

The one anniversary in my life I don’t talk about often.

Image by Author, California Petroglyphs

For me there was a ringing sound in my ears as he spoke. I kept my composure and listened expecting there to be a but somewhere in my doctors explanation. The older, otherwise emotionless man was noticeably shaken as he explained the situation to me. His break in character spoke volumes to my twenty-something brain. There was not going to be a but.

After months of diagnosis and testing, the doctors at Stanford figured out my problem was auto-immune related. Without all the technical explanation of my misfiring immune system — my body was eating itself and it started with my organs. Inside where you can’t see the damage without an autopsy.

There was a discussion about drugs to slow the progress of the disease. Each prescription held its own list of symptoms eventually leading to organ failure. The best case scenario was dialysis. The damage to my uterus was permanent. I would not have any children. I didn’t hear much the doctor said past that bit of news. I didn’t want children but the news I couldn’t have one crushed me.

Hives were the only thing anyone could see from the outside. I planned to go out drunk, stoned and totally exhausted. This was impossible of course. I was already too tired to drive myself to appointments, but…