This is an autographed paperback copy of Angel Kisses: No More Cancer, Am Emotional Journey of Love, Loss, Courage, and Hope. by Stacie Overman
Free shipping for the US only. You will be notified of your shipment via email once the printed copies have arrived for Stacie to sign.
“They told me I’m dying.” I said the words to my mom over the phone.
This was after my second chemo treatment. I got it every other Friday and my husband got chemo opposite me, also every other Friday. I was home alone, lying in bed in my three-story house with my cordless phone pressed against my face. Mom had called, but I had no energy. I couldn’t even hold the receiver, so it was propped up next to me. Yesterday, when they told me I was dying, I didn’t feel like I was.
“But today I feel like I am,” I told my mother in a pain-filled voice. As I was speaking, I could feel every bone in my body aching, especially my sternum. I was lying on my pillow with tears streaming out of my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. I could feel her wanting to be with me, but she was in another state. I knew she just wanted to hold her baby, and I just wanted my mommy.
My husband was also battling cancer at that time and there were times neither of us could go down the nineteen stairs, so we had a mini fridge and surround sound in the room. It was an old house that my husband had rebuilt and renovated. It had a big archway to see into the bathroom which had a garden tub.
As I was lying on the bed, I looked in the bathroom and wondered if I could even make it there. There was a rocker recliner next to the bed, and I didn’t even have the strength to get to the chair. I couldn’t turn on the television because all the sound did was hurt my body.
There were two windows in the room, I could look out to see the birds and the tall pine trees. The view was absolutely beautiful. But because I was lying there so much, my husband was worried my chemo would settle in my bladder and burn a hole there, so he got a huge mason jar, set it next to my bed, and said, “I want you to drink this whole thing.”
I was never a big water drinker but now, with chemo, it tasted like a ground-up penny on my tongue. I couldn’t drink more than two sips all day.
This memory is forever etched in my mind. I can still hear the birds chirping outside the window. I can smell the earthy scent of the pine trees wafting in with the gentle breeze. As I write this, it tastes as if the metallic flavor lingers on my tongue, and I press my hand to my heart as I recall the pain in my chest. Tears fill my eyes even now. They told me I’m dying