Living for Myself: The Year I Learned to Breathe

“You’re saying there’s nothing else you can do?” My voice echoed in the sterile white room, shaking as I clutched my purse like a lifeline. Dr. Daniels wouldn’t meet my eyes, just tapped his pen against the counter and shuffled papers. “With aggressive treatment, we’re looking at maybe a year. A year and a half, tops.” He finally looked up, his face carved with tired sympathy. “I’m sorry, Helen.”

A year. Maybe less. I was 49. Not young, not old, just… somewhere in between. I felt the world tilt, like I was standing on the deck of a ship in a storm, but I forced myself to nod. “Okay,” I whispered. “Thank you, Doctor.”

The walk to my car felt like crossing a desert. My hands shook as I fumbled for my keys, my mind spinning. Cancer. Stage four. The words tasted metallic and unreal. I started the engine and stared out at the parking lot, watching other people go about their lives, carrying groceries, wrangling toddlers, laughing on their phones. I tried to remember the last time I laughed out loud.

I called my sister, Lisa, before I even left the lot. “Hey. Can you pick up Mom from the salon? And maybe keep her for the night?” I swallowed, my voice trembling. “I just… I need some time alone.”

Lisa’s voice was soft. “Are you okay, Helen?”

“No,” I whispered. “But I’ll call you tomorrow.”

When I got home, the house was silent. The kind of silence that’s too heavy, pressing down on you until you can’t breathe. I wandered through the living room, past the family photos lined up on the mantel: my ex-husband Brian, our daughter Emily at her high school graduation, me and Mom in matching Christmas sweaters. I realized, with a jolt, how little of my life was actually mine. Every frame, every smile, every plan — all for someone else. I’d spent my whole life making sure everyone else was taken care of. Emily, Mom, Brian, even Lisa. Always putting myself last.

I poured a glass of wine. Then another. By the time the bottle was empty, I was sitting on the kitchen floor, knees to my chest, sobbing so hard I thought I’d choke.

The next morning, reality hit with the harshness of sunlight through the blinds. My head pounded, my mascara was smeared, and the news of my diagnosis sat in my chest like a stone. I called Brian, because I had to tell him. He answered on the second ring. “Helen? You okay?”

I tried to sound steady. “Can you come over? I need to talk to you about something.”

He was there in twenty minutes, still wearing his work clothes. When I told him, he just sat down hard on the couch and stared at the floor. “Jesus, Helen. What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just needed you to know.”

We sat in silence for a long time. Eventually he squeezed my hand. “I’ll help, whatever you need.”

The days blurred together. Telling Emily was the worst. She’s twenty-four, fierce and stubborn, convinced she can fix anything. She cried, then got angry, then made a color-coded list of specialists to call. I let her. She needed something to do. Mom just kept repeating, “No, no, no,” like if she said it enough times it wouldn’t be true.

But life kept moving. Bills still came. Dishes still piled up. I still had to pick up prescriptions and take Mom to her appointments. Lisa tried to help, but she’s got three kids and a job and a husband who barely comes home. I started to resent everyone and everything. Why did I have to keep holding it all together when I was the one falling apart?

One night, after everyone had gone, I sat on the porch, listening to cicadas whir in the darkness. Emily came out, wrapped in a blanket. “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. “What do you want to do? Like, if you could do anything?”

It was a simple question, but I had no answer. I’d never let myself think about what I wanted. I was always the responsible one, the caretaker. Wanting things felt selfish.

But the question stuck with me. Days later, I started making a list. Not the bucket list stuff — no skydiving, no trips to Paris. Just small, ordinary things I’d put off: take a pottery class, eat dinner at that fancy restaurant downtown, sleep in past 7am, read a book all the way through without interruptions, go hiking in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I started saying no. No, I can’t take Mom to church this Sunday. No, I can’t babysit the twins. No, I’m not hosting Thanksgiving this year. My family didn’t understand. Lisa was furious. “What is wrong with you? You can’t just check out!”

I wanted to scream, “I’m dying! Doesn’t that count for something?” But I bit my tongue. Instead, I said quietly, “For once, I need to do things for me.”

The backlash was swift. Mom cried, Emily sulked, Lisa accused me of being selfish. Brian tried to mediate, but only made things worse. For a while, I was completely alone. It hurt, but also — for the first time in decades — I felt a flicker of freedom.

I took the pottery class. My hands shook, but I made a lopsided bowl and felt proud. I went to the restaurant, ordered the lobster, and ate alone by candlelight. I hiked the Blue Ridge trail, gasping for breath but laughing at the view. I finished a book, then started another.

Slowly, the people I loved started to come back. Emily joined me for a hike. Lisa called to apologize. Mom stopped begging me to go to Mass and started asking what I wanted to do. We learned to live in the new normal. The fear never went away, but it stopped controlling me.

I don’t know how much time I have left. Some days I’m terrified; some days I’m at peace. But for the first time, I’m living for myself.

Do we ever really put ourselves first, or do we just wait until it’s almost too late? If you found out your time was running out, what would you finally do for yourself?