365 Days

362

362

I am going to die.

I have a rare cancer that started as a growth in my appendix and the cancerous cells have now spread to the peritoneum (the lining of the abdominal cavity). The cells have produced their mucus which is collecting in my stomach as we speak.

It sounds horrendously disgusting, I know, but it's not that bad. There could be worse ways to go. I could have smallpox or lung cancer or coronary artery disease. I could have died in a car accident or jumping out of an airplane with a faulty chute; all of which sound painful. I can't say my Pseudomyxoma Peritonei (PMP for short) is fun, nor is it pain-free, but it's not the worst thing I could die from.

I'm not going to ramble on about what is happening inside my stomach because it's really not important. All that is important is that I have just been given a year to live; a whole 365 days. That means 8765.81 hours to have fun; 525949 minutes to live my life to the fullest.

And what am I doing in the precious days I have left, you ask? I shall start with sitting in my room, eating Coco-Pops with my best friend.

I'm lucky to have Olive Augustine as my best friend. She doesn't treat me like I'm dying and doesn't bother to walk on eggshells around me. She is blunt, and quite possibly my favorite person on the planet.

"In case you didn't know, you're dying in a year. You have over three hundred days. How do you want to spend them?"

"Well," I say, my mouth full of now-mushy breakfast cereal. I swallow. "I definitely want to learn to drive. That's a must."

"Okay," she nods her head, scooping up her cereal. "That's easy."

I laugh in her face. "Did you not see me when I tried to learn last time? I nearly ran over four people!" What's worse is that I was in my grandparents' paddock with only my family and Olive watching. It was a disaster.

A frown touches my best friend's face. "Good point. We'll just have to find you a better teacher."

"Mmkay." I cross my legs on my bedroom floor, liking how the carpet feels on my skin. "What else should I do?"

She glances to the watch on her wrist. "I have an idea," she says, standing up and taking her empty bowl with her. "Get ready. School starts soon."

"How soon?"

"Soon enough."

"Fine. Take my bowl."

"Ok. I'll be downstairs with the family."

"I'll be down soon."

And that is our friendship summed up in one conversation. We have been close since we were six and have grown closer in the eleven years following. We are pretty much sisters who live in different houses.

I shower and dress in my favourite jeans and a grey knit sweater and scarf. I pull my blonde hair into a ponytail that reaches the middle of my back and take my coat off the back of the door to my room.

Downstairs, I hear my family chatting away as if it weren't morning and early. As per my request, they are going to try to act like I'm not dying until I start getting really sick, which won't be for a while.

"Good morning sunshine." That will be my mother. She has a smile on her radiant face as she slides pancakes onto two plates that are set out on the counter. They are each a different colour and pattern, which is the theme of our entire house; colourful mismatch. I used to think my parents had been hippies when they were younger but then I realized that they are still hippies... At heart. You wouldn't think it looking at them.