The room grows heavy as I hear my mother’s voice vibrate through the phone. In my head, I tell myself, “How do you tell a dying person that they are dying even more?” With deep despair, my mom says, “She has cancer.”

Full of exuberance and positivity, my aunt has been battling cancer since 2019. It was hard to imagine her sick, however, considering how she would spontaneously start dancing with me, swinging me in all directions and teasing me. I was convinced she was healed after a few years. The reality struck me on February 7, 2024, when an excruciating pain brought her to the emergency room. I was writing a research paper on my parents' computer when my mother sent, “I’m not okay” to the family group chat. I could hear the faint “No, no, no” crescendoing from downstairs as my brother raced upstairs. He started calling my mom after he closed the door behind him, restricting access to my worrisome grandmother and leaving us as siblings to hear the news. Over the phone, I could hear my mother’s whimper. Strangely enough, the moment was akin to an award ceremony. The anticipation buzzed in the air, competitors shuffled in their seats, and the person behind the microphone was holding the piece of paper with a name on it. The next words would either completely shatter the heart or place it on a pedestal; there is silence before the name gets called out. “She has bone cancer.” No award, only the shattering of my heart.

When I turned fifteen, I couldn’t help but stare at my birthday candles with anguish as they sang “Happy Birthday.” I felt miserable; all the attention on me, combined with the season of COVID-19, had transformed me into a dissatisfied and anxious teenager. I was scared to lift my head, knowing that one look could make me erupt into a fit of tears. Begrudgingly, I still lifted my head, and instead of crying, I saw my aunt making strange faces to try to get me to smile. Quickly, the corners of my mouth turned upright. My aunt has this unique ability that allows her to make anyone smile. Without fail, even in her most painful moments, her smiley dimples were always present.

She has taught me two excruciatingly important lessons: to have faith and remain steadfast with a positive attitude. Negative assumptions and doubt have fueled all of my struggles, avoiding several situations out of fear of disappointment and constantly worrying about the possibility of danger. Now, as I look at my aunt and take her as an example, I realize there is a straightforward solution to all my problems: just trust in the plan that has been made for me. I believe in God, knowing He has a plan for every aspect of my life and my aunt’s healing journey. When my aunt was first diagnosed a few years ago, she already had a short life expectancy. Instead of constantly obsessing over what was expected, my family and I just prayed and lived through the plan already in place. She constantly got better and defied all probabilities. I don’t recall any complaints coming from her. Instead of listing off her infirmities, she would count her blessings.

I am at peace with never knowing how much longer my aunt has to live; after all, even as a healthy young adult, I don’t know how much longer I have on this planet. If my aunt has taught me anything, it’s not to allow the bad news or expectations to consume my life. I must live oblivious to the future and focus on what impacts I can make today. Death is not the scary part; it is the regret of not spending life the way it was intended to.

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