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I have a matching tattoo with my 17-year-old daughter that reads: "It's not zero."
My tattoo is in her handwriting on my left arm; her tattoo is in my handwriting on her left arm. Because, despite being diagnosed with terminal cancer earlier this year, it's not zero days left for me. It's not zero-percent hope. It's not a zero chance that I will get to see her graduate high school.
But I also recognize that there is zero chance I will beat this cancer. And that's why I've become an outspoken advocate for passage of legislation that provides terminally ill patients with the option to seek a prescription from their doctor for medication to end their life peacefully.
The news that I had Stage 4, incurable, inoperable metastatic adenocarcinoma of the small intestine came as a shock. My family and I were in a state of disbelief. We have gone from shock to denial and anger, to negotiating, and finally to acceptance. But it's not a linear path.
Being surrounded by loving people makes me feel less afraid. Human connection, I have found, is the meaning of life. For me, this also applies to how I want to die. I don't want a long, drawn-out end. I didn't pick this road, but I'm on it, and I want control in deciding when I've suffered enough.
I want as many pretty good days as possible, very few bad days and then a quick end, surrounded by love — hopefully many years from now (or at least many months).