For a while now, I’ve been trying to figure out what the difference is between people that have cancer and people that do not. There is the obvious: chemotherapy, hospital stays, forced recognition of mortality. But really, how different does that make us from everyone else. Chemotherapy is medicine albeit a poisonous, hair stealing, monster of a medicine. However, chemo is just medicine. People with diabetes need medicine (insulin) to continue living. People with asthma need an inhaler. People with mental incapacities can take pills every day. Others with heart disease can take pills to increase their quality and quantity of life. You get my point. Medicine is medicine and that does not fully separate a person with cancer from the rest of the people in the world. Hospital stays are harder to explain away and compare against others that do not have cancer. Many have strokes, heart attacks, and accidents that can place them in hospitals or rehabilitation centers for extended stays. For many with a cancer diagnosis, a hospital becomes almost like a second home. Definitely not a home we want, but a home nonetheless. Hospitals and treatment centers become a hub of daily life where receiving a simple injection takes no less than four hours. Blood transfusions, treatments, blood tests, and scans require constant visits to doctors and hospitals. There is no escaping that yet I do not believe that spending extended periods of time is what separates the “us” from “them”. Bus drivers, lawyers, accountants, and veterinarians spend extended periods of time in their place of work. Receiving chemo at a hospital can feel like a job in and of itself. That does not separate a cancer patient from the rest of society. Now, to the good stuff: forced recognition of mortality. At a certain age all people from all walks of life realize that their physical human body is fallible. We are not gods and are mortal. We all know we are going to die. This is where the difference lies. Cancer patients have the opportunity to mourn their death, see their impending doom, and taste their death more clearly than others. Many people are lucky enough not to know the timeline of their lives. One day Mr. Anyman can get up, cross the street, and get hit by a bus. Mrs. Anywoman can have an aneurism and die in her sleep. Hearts stop. Brain processes end. The body withers and turns to dust. Most, however, do not know their expiration date. Cancer patients are given a timeline. A cancer diagnosis tends to come with a most certain imminent death. I was given five years. I have four left. I woke up today and a movie about a twenty four year old dying from an inoperable brain tumor was on (thanks Lifetime for always ruining my day) and I cried. I cried for the first time in a very, very long time. I cried because I feel guilty that I may have to leave my family before they are ready to let go. I cried because I might not be here to see my little sister get married and have a baby and grow old and grey. I cried because I want to die in my bed, not in a hospital connected to tubes and breathing apparatus’s. I cried because I might not have a wedding like I always dreamed of and I might never have a baby of my own to hold, love, and raise. Mostly I cried because I don’t want to know about the next four years and what they have in store for me. I envy Mr. Anyman and Mrs. Anywoman. I wish I could taste my own death less.