By: Eugenia Mancini, 53, Lung Cancer

On the day of my appointment, I put on a long skirt, long-sleeve shirt, and jacket in the August heat to cover my frail frame and cancer accessories. We set off, my heart pounding with excitement and tachycardia.

Dressed up? In my head, I thought I looked amazing.

My husband, my mother, and I arrived at the cancer center. I could feel eyes on me, but I didn’t let myself think about it. I remembered how I’d gone through that same door just two and a half months earlier. Even though I was even worse now, I was one of the only people smiling.

I wasn’t asking them for help; not this time. Today I knew how to help myself. I just needed a signature. Easy. How could my doctor deny me this treatment that could save my life? That was too ridiculous to waste energy on.

Just like at my first visit, I was completely unaware of how unbelievably sick I looked. I was just over the moon that all the fighting had paid off. I held on. I didn’t give up. I had never believed I was too far gone to get here. I said this woman would fix it, and here I was to be fixed.

But I obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. My Oncologist had no idea that I had obsessively thought about this exact moment since July thirtieth. Imagining this triumph had gotten me through the darkest moments in the ICU, the scariest moments in hospice, and my late-night terrors at home. But she had no idea. This wasn’t the winning of an incredible battle against time, power, and my own body—not to her.

I had turned her into my salvation because, honestly, there was nowhere else to go. I believed the fact that she knew me would save me. She knew I was stubborn, that I was a fighter, and that I wanted to get well. I knew her to be fair, even-tempered, and thorough. She wouldn’t turn me away and sentence me to death. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

I was called back to see her, and within three minutes, all these attributes I recalled seemed the opposite of the doctor that I saw looking at me. I saw it immediately. She did not believe that treatment would save me. She didn’t believe anything could save me.

She only believed my cancer math—those stupid numbers.

I hoped she would see what I had going for me: My mind was on, it was firing, and I was determined to live.

She wasn’t able to see past my frail, useless body.

I used the most important muscles I had—those that enabled me to speak. I plead my case. I outlined and framed my argument, serious as a sermon. I think she was quite surprised to find out I had a mission. It was a word that had never passed between us before. I also think she saw the uncertainty on the faces of Seth and my mother. She spoke to them, and I flinched as she saw the shrugs and uncertainty.

“God damn it,” I thought. “Are they trying to get me killed?”

I didn’t have the luxury of not betting it all. I wouldn’t hear of anything else or look at any other option; I had found my person. I intrinsically knew it was treatment or death, so I’d picked my side and never wavered. There was no other side. I was too sick for chemo. Even if I had been willing to take it, it would certainly have killed me. I had outlived a few death forecasts in order to sit in this room.

She looked at me, her face blank, as if she wanted it to seem like she was considering it.

She said, “No.” …and continued to.

For over thirty minutes we volleyed. Not only did she refuse, but she actively tried to dissuade me from this drug. But I could not be swayed. I was fueled by adrenalin. I had never considered the possibility that she might say no, because it was so obviously black-and-white. She was a doctor. Their duty is to at least attempt to save lives—to do no harm. This seemed like the ultimate harm. I was present and I was fighting. How could it be “too late?” How could I be “too far gone” if I’d gotten my ass into that office to beg?

I didn’t buy her stance that it could be considered cruel to prescribe it to me, likely because it was bullshit. If I died from pneumonitis or colitis, then so be it. But I would be damned if I died from neglect, waiting for cancer to shut down my lungs, from not being brave enough to try… or from her not being brave enough to try.

I had nothing to lose. I started pleading and could not stop. I talked about my deepest desires. I said that I wasn’t done with my life, that I could do this; that I would fight harder, longer, relentlessly. I would live. I didn’t want to leave Seth. I didn’t want to leave my dogs. I couldn’t bear the thought of my mother and father losing their child. How could she stand it? How could she sentence me to death? I didn’t stop. I pulled away from Seth and my mother, both of whom were trying to catch the snot running from my nose. I laid myself bare. I was livid. The past seven months flashed before me, and the memories of my mistreatment lit me on fire. I would not end like this.

I was two weeks past my two weeks to live. I was already on borrowed time. Who was she to just say no? I was asking her to prescribe it, not to pay for it herself. I wasn’t asking for heroin or crack. I wasn’t asking for cash or prizes. I was asking for a chance—just ONE chance—to keep my life. I was asking her to do her job, not for her opinion.

I called once again on my philosophical training to assess the situation. How do I best argue for my life? I knew her stance was based, if not on personal bias, then most certainly on the bias of the medical system. If there was a crack in her agreement with the system, I might still have a shot. I could not convince her I would survive. That had been my error. Asking her to believe in me had been a nearly fatal mistake.

So I tried to convince her of the death I thought I deserved.

This occurred in 2019, and a lot has happened since.

Doctors have told me that I’m the sickest terminal cancer patient ever to make a full and complete recovery. I had stage 4b, grade 4 non-small cell lung cancer with metastases to the small bowel. I spent a month in the ICU because I had a tumor covering 95% of my trachea. That was handled with ablations and a 10 day coma, but I still had a collapsed lung. I’d recently been septic, and I’d just gotten over pneumonia in my good lung. I had an intussusception removed from my bowel and was still stitched up from that surgery, as the second and then third would form from the cancer in my small bowel. I was on my fifth month as a bed-bound invalid. I’d long since lost my ability to walk, stand, or even sit up. I weighed roughly sixty pounds.

But I was happy. I was excited that I was going to get better. I was completely alone in that belief, but it didn’t matter. I knew.

Present Day: I recently celebrated six years of clear scans. I’ve been off treatment for over five.

Based on what the medical system has never stopped telling me: This is my 2,344th day with 3 days to live. I’m labeled terminal, living on 0% odds since August 2019. But it’s just noise. If I listen, it will distract me from living.

My cancer was found February 15th, 2019. There has been no sign of it since December 9th, 2019. I spent six months losing everything but my mind, and the next three using my mind to take it all back.

All my cancer ever needed was treatment. It did not need hypotheses, educated guesses, or philosophical waxings.

I never needed a miracle, just medical care. Or maybe just someone who actually cared, rather than sighing at me. They only ever saw me as a dead girl. My greatest gift was being able to show my former doctors who I really am. I am not cancer. I am just a girl who got cancer, but I didn’t lose who I was. I didn’t become cancer.

I’ve been a patient advocate for the past six years. Because I know what people are capable of if someone believes in them and fights for them.

There is always hope.