As a cancer patient on regular rounds of chemotherapy, this is a question that I have often asked myself. When I look in the mirror and see a body that I don’t recognize and the effects of the drugs on my brain have me under a heavy fog of malaise, it is easy to drop into the trap of defeatism. I have stared into my own eyes, wondering what had become of their prior yearning or that sly glint I imagined they used to have, and asked the mirror if this is what it feels like to die. To waste away into a reflection of what I was. To effectively disappear from the world, slowly, margin by margin, breath by breath.

Over the past two months, I have dealt with a minor bout of pneumonia and the added lethargy resulting from particularly strong antibiotics; the short-term gains of tightened abs from my persistent cough and the long-term loss of overall muscle mass from simply having no energy to exercise. Even a couple weeks out from recovery, the last two rounds of my chemo protocol have wiped me out, to the point where I simply feel weak all the time. I’m aware enough to know, intellectually, that this isn’t the cancer’s doing. But looking at that guy through the glass, it can be tough to convince him. He stares right through me like he knows something I don’t, or that he has given up caring enough to even try connecting. I resent him. I resent the lack of expression he gives me, the unreadable eyes, the slack face; the inexplicable tear that rolls down one cheek only adds to my indignation. Even then, I cannot muster any real anger. Only a lasting emptiness settles through me, hollow, dark and cold.

Rallying is not always easy. It’s never easy, really. But it is essential. This is the point where I will usually splash some water on my face, maybe to wash away that lone tear, maybe to clear off the oily film of purged toxins that persists for days after each infusion. The water helps, though. Cleansing helps. To feel re-anointed, awoken, somehow fresh, even just briefly, allows that moment of clarity in. I remind myself: I’m human, I’m human. I have the gift of self-determination, at least insofar as I can choose how to approach this world, this experience. I am in charge of my perspective and I can embrace what is and live this experience the best way possible, or I can attempt denial or fear or hatred and put myself at odds with a world from which I cannot escape.

And I can answer myself, then: I don’t know what dying feels like. And I won’t know until the time comes, whenever that will be, but this isn’t it.

Suddenly, I can recognize that face in the mirror again. And it might not be much of one, but I think that is an attempt at a smile.

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