I never thought I’d say this, but sometimes it feels like I’m not dying fast enough for certain people.
There’s this quiet, cruel truth no one warns you about when you’re terminal: people have expectations about how you’re supposed to die. They picture the movie version—diagnosis, a period of struggle, a heartfelt goodbye, and then a neat, tragic ending. But life doesn’t follow a script. It drags. It twists. It leaves you stuck in a body that’s slowly falling apart while the world keeps moving on without you.
And sometimes, you can feel people growing restless.
The Waiting Game No One Talks About
Being terminal means everyone knows where this road ends, but no one knows how many miles are left. It’s like we’re all sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable waiting room. Some people are there with me—holding my hand, bringing me water, making sure I laugh even when it hurts. And then there are others—the ones who are tapping their foot, checking their watch, silently annoyed that my story hasn’t wrapped up yet.
You can see it in the way they stop checking in.
You can hear it in the way they sigh when you mention another appointment.
You can feel it in the silence after you share an update and no one replies.
It’s almost like they expected me to disappear gracefully, quickly, neatly. But I didn’t. I’m still here. And for some people, my survival feels like an inconvenience.
The In-Between Is Its Own Kind of Hell
Living while dying isn’t simple. It isn’t one or the other—it’s both at once. My body is rotting from the inside out. My heart is damaged, my bones ache, my abdomen is a war zone. I can’t live the way I used to, but I also haven’t crossed that final line. I exist in this in-between space where I’m too sick to really live, but too alive to be gone.
And I’ll be honest—it’s brutal. Some days I think maybe leaving quickly would have been easier. At least then no one would be treating me like a TV show that overstayed its welcome. At least then I wouldn’t feel like I’m disappointing people just by hanging on longer than they expected.
But the truth is, I’m still here. I’m still waking up. I’m still loving, laughing, crying, hurting. I’m still finding reasons to hold on, even when it feels unbearable. And that matters.
The Guilt That Eats Me Alive
And while I’m here—stuck in this long, slow unraveling—I carry guilt heavier than my own body.
I feel like a shitty wife, because so much of our marriage is spent with me sick, exhausted, or in pain instead of being the partner I always wanted to be. I feel like a shitty daughter, because my parents have to watch me fade and suffer instead of thriving. I feel like a shitty friend, because I cancel plans, disappear into my illness, and have nothing left to give. I feel like a shitty aunt, because the kids I love so much are going to remember me more for being sick than for the adventures I dreamed of having with them.
I know the people who love me don’t see me that way. But I do. And sometimes, it feels like I’m letting everyone down just by existing in this dragged-out, half-life version of myself.
The Truth No One Wants to Hear
I know some people are tired of my story. They don’t say it out loud, but it shows. They’re tired of the updates, tired of my tears, tired of the way cancer keeps interrupting the version of me they liked better—the healthy one, the fun one, the easy one.
But I’m not here to make this easy for anyone. I’m not dying on your timeline. I’m not going to fold myself neatly into the tragedy box so you can move on comfortably. My existence—no matter how messy, painful, guilty, or prolonged—is still mine.
And if my “taking too long” to die makes someone restless? That’s on them. Not me.
To the Ones Who Feel This Too
If you’re reading this and you know what I mean—if you’ve ever felt like your suffering is dragging on too long for others to stomach—I want you to hear this: you are not an inconvenience. You are not a burden. You are a human being living through something unspeakably hard, and every single day you breathe is yours to claim.
Don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for surviving. Don’t let anyone make you feel like your slow, painful, ongoing existence is less worthy than a quick, cinematic ending.
You’re here. That’s enough.
💌 And to the people who love me for real: thank you. Thank you for never making me feel like I’m “taking too long.” Thank you for sitting with me in this waiting room of a life without tapping your foot. You’re the reason I keep going, even when I wonder if I should stop.
A Word From Mojo 🐾
Hi, it’s me, Mojo. I’ve been listening to Mom pour her heart out, and I need to clear something up: she is not a shitty wife, daughter, friend, or aunt. She is my human. My favorite person. The one who keeps going even when it feels impossible.
I see her cry when she thinks no one’s looking. I see her apologize for being sick, as if this was something she chose. I see her break into pieces, and then somehow gather herself enough to pet me, to smile at me, to love me—even when she feels like she has nothing left to give.
So if anyone thinks she’s “taking too long” to die, too bad. That means I get more time with her. More naps tucked under her arm, more belly rubs, more of her soft voice telling me I’m the goodest boy.
She is not an inconvenience. She is not too much. She is mine.
And until her very last breath, I’m not letting anyone make her feel otherwise.
Now excuse me—I’ve got to go sit on her lap so she remembers she’s still needed.
– Mojo 🐾
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