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    I am scared that people at work are just being nice because they think I might die.
    I am scared my husband secretly thinks he married damaged goods.
    I am scared not enough people will come to my funeral. I am scared that I did not amount to enough. I am scared that I will not have an obituary. Scared that my student loans will not even be paid off when I die (I checked the fine print and felt a little better knowing that they can’t make you pay if you’ve died). I am scared that my younger brother Howard will not be able to handle his big sister dying on him. I’m his big sister and I’m supposed to protect him. I am scared I have let so many people down by getting cancer. It is so strange to have cancer at twenty-seven. I’m not a kid with cancer—that is super tragic. But I am still young enough that it is quasi-kid tragic. I feel like such a baby having my parents there with me at my doctor appointments. But I need my mommy and daddy now. I was never scared of monsters when I was little. I am so scared of cancer now.
    I am scared to go to sleep because I think I won’t wake up. I will just close my eyes and I won’t even know that I died. Is that how people die? Will I know that I died? I am scared on rainy and cold nights that I will be lonely when I die, that I will miss everyone. I am scared I won’t be missed.
    I am scared that my cancer is incurable. That it is aggressive—I mean, how could I ever have a passive cancer? No way. Just ask my Dad. I am scared sometimes when it is quiet that the cancer is starting to grow again. That it is swishing around my body as my heart is beating.
    I am scared that I will never be the same.
    That is why now I can’t just sit in a restaurant and pretend I am part of the normal world. Why should I even eat if I am dying anyway? I hear silverware rattling and I know that Tyler and my mom are starting to eat their lunch. I lift my head up a little and peek through my arm and I see the worry in Tyler’s and my mom’s eyes, but I also see they were optimistic enough to order me my favorite meal: a smoked salmon platter. They are picking at their food and look as panicked as I feel. I can’t do this to them. I need to be brave for them. I need to lift up my head.
    “I’m sorry,” I start to sob again. I sound so muffled through my arms. “Let me take an Ativan and see if I can calm down. I promise I’ll try to eat in a few minutes.”
    I have been trying to learn how to manage my anxiety and right now in this restaurant is the perfect test. I am trying to remind myself about my newfound secret weapons: Ativan, Affirmations, and Amazons . . .
    Ativan: All my boob doctors have been telling me that I need a head doctor because clearly they are two different specialties. Whenever I ask, “Am I going to die?” or “Why did this happen to me?” or whenever I cry, they tell me, “You need to see a psychiatrist.”
    Tyler found me my cancer therapist. She had written a book about treating cancer patients and their families that was displayed in the Mount Sinai medical library. She lets me say anything I need to, like, “I’m scared I’m going to die,” and “Why did this happen to me?” It doesn’t freak her out at all or make her think that I am crazy. But she, too, told me, “You need to see a psychiatrist.” But not because she was worried that I was going crazy. She wanted me to get a prescription for anti-anxiety medication: Ativan. Whoever invented Ativan must have been a very worried person because it really does take the edge off nicely.
    Affirmations: I also found a hypnotherapist to teach me how to say affirmations to calm myself down because I am so scared I will faint when I get needles. I have such a low pain threshold and I can’t stand blood. I faint even seeing blood donation signs. The hypnotherapist tells me to think of myself as like the sky and then nothing can stick to me. The sky is so open and vast and stays unchanged no matter