When I hear “3 to 6 months” I think, “Well, that’s pretty vague.” When you look at it, school, for many kids, will be out for summer in three months, and then in six months it will be back in session. Four or five months puts you smack-dab in the middle of summer. I don’t like such vague terms.
However, that’s what we were given. My family, that is. My grandma, who’s health has taken an unfortunate turn, has 3 to 6 months to live. Last week she was given a CT scan and they discovered cancer. Bad cancer. Terminal cancer. Cancer that had started in her pancreas and metastasized into her liver. Cancer so aggressive that given her current condition, it’s untreatable – because of the stroke she suffered, which happened because of the heart attack she had. In fact, doctors figured the cancer is what caused the heart attack.
But what on earth would have happened if that 1 in 5,000 odd didn’t happen to my grandma and that she didn’t suffer a stroke during her angioplasty? What then? Would we keep going on not knowing? Would she still have only 3 to 6 months? Would my heart still be hurting so badly right now?
If none of this happened, my grandparents would just be arriving back into Canada from their snowbirding trip, sun-kissed and full of excitement to finally see their family after four months. My grandma would most likely have an armful of pink onesies picked out for Baby. Now … now she might not even meet her great granddaughter. I’m due in three months.
And it hurts. So much.
3 to 6 months.