Description
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. Your book will be mailed within 7 business days.
“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
