120 days...

by Stratton, M.

  I love Amalie, she is so funny and caring, I secretly stalk her on social media and am going to fangirl when I meet her, and she is that awesome. When I heard she had not one, but two names my heart broke for her. Her father and her best friend. The more I learn about Amalie the more I am amazed at the person she is.—M. Stratton

  William Kenneth Johnson

  Written by: Amalie Silver

  William Kenneth Johnson was my father. Throughout my life, he’d always been a source of comfort. I won’t say he was my rock, mostly because that was Mom for me, but he was always there to help, to offer a bad joke, or show me the proper way to grill a steak.

  He was a warm soul, a smile in the middle of chaos, and a good man.

  When his cancer took a turn for the worse, my fiancé and I stepped up to the plate and bought his house, the same house I grew up in. My parents were able to retire and buy a home up north on a lake, and Dad lived comfortably for nine months living out his dream until he died a year after they moved.

  Colon cancer took him at the young age of sixty-one.

  Love you, Pops.

  1947–2008.

  Elizabeth Munns

  Written by: Amalie Silver

  Elizabeth Munns was my best friend. She had a rough time battling some personal demons, but she always kept a bright smile on her face. Her entire life was devoted to God and his good, but she never judged anyone. And she never judged me. Not when I smoked. Not when I drank. Not when I came out. And not when I told her I didn’t believe in religion.

  She was beauty in every definition.

  Her diagnosis came out of nowhere, and for a short time I didn’t believe her. I remember having to look up the word melanoma and its prognosis, because I wasn’t even sure what it was.

  God took her home in 1998 at the age of twenty. She passed eight months after she was diagnosed.

  Miss your smile, babe. I miss everything about you.

  1977–1998.

  RJ is another author friend. As with all of us, talking, or writing about our loved ones who have or are going through cancer is difficult, she wanted to do this until she is able to write her mother’s story. Thank you for sharing her with me.—M. Stratton

  Dolores

  Written by: RJ Van Cleave

  My mom. Ah yes, where do I start? My mom, Dolores, was born in 1936 in Bayside, NY. She was the second of two children and grew up in a very eclectic neighborhood full of second generation immigrants. While Mom’s ancestors came from Hungary, she was exposed to Jewish, Polish, German, and Asian cultures and embraced them all. She was blessed to have many friends, but tragedy struck her family when she was 12. Her father died unexpectedly, hemorrhaging to death after surgery for TB, which he had contracted from a co-worker. My grandma held down three jobs to support her children, and my mom took on two jobs once she turned 15. Mom met Dad through her brother when she was 16 (he was 22, fresh out of the Navy). She graduated high school early and got married 15 days after she turned 18—for no other reason but love. Two years later, in 1956, my parents packed all of their belongings into their car. With only $500 to their name, they set off for San Diego, CA, where Dad’s ship had docked briefly. They had no job, and no place to live when they arrived, but by the grace of God, they quickly found both.

  Mom’s greatest joys in life were her family, and then her career. She put work on hold to raise her kids, but went back to school and got her AA degree at the age of 55. She eventually found a niche in the construction trade and loved her job as an office manager. Fast forward to 2011- Mom had four grown children, nine grandchildren, and her first great-grandbaby on the way. She got sick, for the first time in decades, with pneumonia. Then pancreatitis hit—or so the doctors thought. Her pancreas was inflamed, but normal treatments did nothing to help. In and out of the hospital, rapid weight loss, and mental confusion quickly took over. Excruciating pain in her back and abdomen, plus fluid filling her chest cavity eventually kept her in the hospital—a place she hated because of her father’s death. Numerous doctors saw her (EXCEPT oncology) and had ‘pissing contests’ as to who had the correct diagnosis. The pulmonologist was convinced it was TB, due to her exposure to it 63 years prior! Twenty-one days after her second long-term admittance, she was transferred to the ICU because her blood pressure had plummeted. Inexplicably, lymphoma cells had also been found for the first time in the fluid drained from her chest, and the doctors told us there was nothing more they could do. We removed the epinephrine that had kept her alive and maxed out her morphine. Three hours later, on June 2, at 11:12 PM, she took her last breath. As a Biologist, I had to know what happened. We were all stunned when the autopsy report said it was non-Hodgkin B-cell lymphoma (specifically Primary Pancreatic Lymphoma—so rare that only 0.3% of people get it) and it had metastasized. It had taken over her pancreas, her spleen (which contradicts PPL according to my research), abdominal linings, her left kidney/adrenal gland (the back pain), and both lungs. They couldn’t tell us how long she had had it, but we suspect it was the cause of her pneumonia. At the age of 75, and after 57 years of marriage, my mom was gone . . . yet another victim of cancer.

  Crissy is a reader who happens to love my books and we’ve become friends. Not only has she given me her grandfather’s story, she also beta read 120 days . . . for me. Thank you for your story and the feedback on my story.—M. Stratton

  Richard Simpson

  Written by: Crissy Sutcliffe

  His Life

  Richard Simpson was a kind and loving person. He always tried to be funny, even if his humor was lost on others. Along with my grandmother, he took me in when my mother was young. It was too hard for her to care for me. He worked hard, no matter what job he had. Most of his younger years were spent working as a trucker. As time went on, he became a commercial fisherman and loved that job. I think it was one of the things that made him happy in life.

  His Illness

  One day he started having chest pains. After a month of us hounding him to get it checked out, he went to the doctor. The diagnosis was something none of us expected. Stage IV lung cancer. He was given six months to live.

  In the months that followed he tried to stay upbeat. He went through radiation like a champ! The chemotherapy was a different story. It took everything out of him. He was losing weight rapidly. It got to the point where it was very hard to watch. Three months and sixty pounds later, he ended up so sick that we had to take him to the emergency room.

  All of his loved ones, family members and friends, gathered by his side to spend the final twenty hours of his life with him. He passed on June 26, 2012.

  I met Rebecca when she came up to my table at a signing and said “Dorks over forks!” I must admit, I think I squealed. The motto in my street team is Dorks Over Forks, she had been told by an author friend, who is in there, Chelle C. Craze, to come up to me and say that. She took a bloody fork (swag from one of my romantic thriller series) and we’ve been friends since.—M. Stratton

  Lydia

  Written by: Rebecca Marie

  There are some people you just know on first glance are angels walking the Earth. They’re the ones who give freely of everything they have and everything they are. They’re the ones who always put others first and never have a negative thing to say . . . I was lucky enough to spend my first 18 years of life with such an individual.

  A true walking angel, my Grandma, Lydia, was the greatest woman on the planet, I’m certain. I never wanted for anything, if she could help it. I was always her first priority, the one she put on a pedestal (which I know I did not deserve to be). Aside from just being my primary caregiver, she was my closest ally. In a world filled with darkness, she was light. She was a true positive energy, always focusing on the good, and teaching me that I shouldn’t dwell on negatives and should always make the best of every situation. There are not enough words in the English language to describe how amazing this woman was.

  Even when devastation hit, she made sure I didn’t know unti
l it wasn’t able to be hidden any longer. She suffered from the lethal bastard, pancreatic cancer, in silence. Once again putting everyone else’s lives first, she didn’t want to be a burden. Knowing there was no cure and she would soon be returning to be a heavenly angel, she elected to live her final days here on Earth focusing on the positives, ensuring she had set up for my continued success, and letting her light quietly fade away. She was the greatest thing to have ever blessed my life, and without her I wouldn’t be the person, nor the mother, I am today. She taught me so much, and she was the greatest role model there could be. Cancer may have robbed us of time, but it can never take away all the memories . . .

  I met Tabitha shortly after I published my first novel. She is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever know and I’m very lucky to call her my friend, and now I know where she gets her strength from.—M. Stratton

  Edward Willbanks

  Written by: Tabitha Willbanks

  My Daddy was a very special man. He worked 60 hours a week to provide for our family, until he was ready to drop, and then he’d call my mom and say “I’m taking vacation pack up the girls and be ready to go when I get home.” That’s just how he was. It drove my mom nuts, but she didn’t complain too much.

  When I was six, he was officially diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. He was in the Navy, in Vietnam, and chemicals used over there to kill the dense vegetation were being found to cause cancer in soldiers all over the US at the time. It was a life changing blow. But it didn’t hold him back. One very distinct memory I have is Dad had promised my sister and I we would go to the county fair the day one of his chemo treatments was scheduled. Mom warned us not to get our hopes up, because Dad always felt awful after his treatments. But he was bound and determined to keep his word, and took us to the fair. He felt terrible, and was throwing up, but he muscled through. That’s just the type of man he was. When he was first diagnosed, the doctors really didn’t give him a good chance of survival. But he fought, and fought hard for ten long years. I will forever be grateful for those ten years. I really got to know my Daddy, and the amazing man he was. He eventually passed on December 20, 1999 with my sister and I right by his side.

  I met Jade when I put the call out for stories. Since then we’ve talked in length via message about my story and hers. It is sad, but we can say we are all connected because this disease that affects so many touches our lives. We can babble with each other and understand the pain and loss we are all going through. Somehow the tragedy brings us closer.—M. Stratton

  Bruce Blucker

  Written by: Jade Reel Fox

  My grampy, Bruce Blucker, was the best grandpa a girl could ask for. He was a fitness buff, doing countless push-ups and sit ups. He loved to box, but never got in the ring. He just did it for fun and fitness. He line danced and played basketball. He loved to garage sale so that he could find the antique gem he could fix up to its former glory and sell. Even into his early 80’s he was active and would work around his acreage. He also gardened and was proud to share the fruits of his labor. I was very close to my grandpa. He was an important part of my growing up as he lived in the next town over. We had taco dates once a week when I lived in town and a few times a week when I visited. We had phone conversations 3–4 times a week. He taught me to love, to pray, to be responsible, and to live by doing what was right. In September of 2013 he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Even up to the very end, he handled his illness with grace and class. He never complained and never shared his bad days with his family. He died five months after his diagnosis. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t miss him.

  I don’t have Cameron in my book, he’s Carey Haywood’s, and he inspired her book Better. If you liked 120 days . . . you should read her book. I was lucky enough to beta read this book. Because of my parents this book gutted me, but in a good way. Her words brought me to tears and helped me to deal with the fact at the point when I first read it, both of my parents had cancer. I love you lady, thank you for sharing Cameron with me and everyone who reads this book.—M. Stratton

  Better: http://amzn.to/1E0hQ7U (Better is available on all platforms)

  Cameron

  Written by: Carey Heywood

  Cancer and Harry Potter, the inspiration for Better.

  You wouldn’t think cancer would be the first thing someone thinks about when thinking of Harry Potter, but for me, it always will be.

  I had not read the book when the first movie came out. It was just before Christmas 2001. At the time, I lived in Phoenix, but I was back home in Alexandria for a visit.

  My father was ill, having had a stroke earlier that year. Being home was hard, and seeing him like that was surreal. I had an escape though—my friend, Cameron. Cameron was one of those guys that it took me too long to figure out just how wonderful he was.

  We met in seventh grade French class. My mother met his mother the night before, and she made a point of telling me that Cameron and I should be friends.

  When I saw him, I disagreed. While he was always handsome, he had a quirky fashion sense that I did not get. It was middle school, and I was trying so hard to fit in. He didn’t seem to mind standing out though, and he was always wearing this ridiculous trench coat. We became friends.

  To this day, I’m not certain that I have ever known someone as truly sweet and generous as Cameron was. I say was because Cameron died. That’s where the cancer comes in. I’ll get back to that.

  At the end of and after high school, I was in an extremely toxic and abusive relationship. During one of our breakups, I went out on a couple of dates with Cameron. Looking back, I wish I had been ready for him, but I wasn’t. My head was not in the right place to deal with accepting my attraction to the guy with the mohawk when I was still all messed-up over a guy who was nothing but a thug. Cameron was too different.

  I moved away, and when I came back for a visit, we went on another date. He took me to the little Chinese place next to where the Blockbuster was. Over dinner, he told me he had cancer.

  He learned this during his freshman year of college. He kept having stomach pains and went twice to the student clinic, only to be sent away with painkillers.

  The next time, his mom told him to go to the emergency room. They found a tumor.

  I remember being shocked over dinner but not scared. Nobody I knew had died of cancer. He would be fine.

  We kept in touch while I was in Arizona, talking on the phone maybe once every couple of months. Just as I suspected, the cancer went away. He beat it. He even went back to school and worked up the nerve to ask some girl out. I was jealous.

  He never got a chance to go on that date. The cancer came back, and he moved back home to Virginia.

  The next time I saw him was December 2001. He looked different but not bad. We went to see Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. He had already seen it, but he took me anyway.

  That was his way, always looking out for me. We swam together during high school. I remember my coach wanted me to join this other team. I was scared because I wouldn’t know anyone. Cameron decided to join too.

  He looked at me, so serious. “We’ll carpool.”

  And then, through that awful relationship, I remember him putting his hands on either side of my face, trying to convince me I deserved better, wanting to beat up my ex for hurting me.

  That December in 2001, I was home one week, and I saw Cameron three times.

  I was busy when I first got back to Arizona. I didn’t call him right away. When I did, it was just after New Year’s. He was in the hospital. I spoke to his younger brother. He told me Cameron overdid it when I was in town. I didn’t know.

  Cameron called me when he got out of the hospital. It was the first time I actually considered that he might die. I remember saying that he couldn’t die, that I was putting my foot down, like I had any power. I made him promise me he wouldn’t die, and he did. He promised. When we hung up, I was certain he would beat it again. That was the last time I ever spoke to hi
m.

  When my caller ID flashed his name, I answered all happy and excited to talk to him. But it wasn’t him. It was his dad.

  The second he said, “This is Cameron’s dad,” I knew.

  We didn’t talk long, and I honestly don’t remember anything after he said, “Cameron is gone.”

  At the time, I was a smoker. I went out on my front porch to cry and have a smoke. I lived in Phoenix. It never really got windy unless there was a monsoon, which between you and me, I never understood what the big deal was. It was just rain. It rained all the time in Virginia. Either way, it was windy, really windy, and there wasn’t a monsoon. It felt like Cameron was coming to say good-bye, using the wind to wipe the tears from my face.

  After that night, I began to associate wind with feeling Cameron’s presence. I would lie in bed at night and turn the ceiling fan above my bed to the highest setting to imagine it was him. He was the wind.

  Harry Potter helped me grieve. It gave me time to rest in my memories of Cameron. I bought each book as they came out and saw each movie.

  When the second movie came out, I went by myself on opening weekend. It was packed, standing in line with little kids dressed up as wizards. I had people, strangers really, sitting on either side of me. They probably thought I was off when I sobbed through the opening credits. I just wished Cameron were there with me. That familiar opening melody broke my heart.

  By the third movie’s release, I had a boyfriend. We were pretty serious, but he understood why I went to that movie alone. I told him about Cameron. When we became engaged, he started to come with me. He would hold my hand while I cried.

  The last two movies were hard. The books were all out. The end was in sight. During Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1, I came close to inflicting bodily harm on the people sitting behind me who were laughing during that scene at the end with Harry and Dobby on the beach. Didn’t they know? Couldn’t they understand these movies, this experience, meant so much to me? The last movie was the hardest for me.