How do you thank the person who saves your life? How do you tell them, and what words do we have that truly express such a debt of gratitude? The countless other lives this person has impacted by saving your measly live, that you thought was insignificant, but when you faced death head on, you realized that even if you didn't have meaning for yourself, even if all the years of therapy hadn't allowed you to recognize your own self-worth, that despite the dirty secrets you harbor, the sins you have committed, those other things you call your 'idiosyncrasies', that there are people who love you regardless. People who love you in spite of these things; in spite of You.

It is to spare their grief that you wish to live. Maybe you don't believe that, but if you have ever been close to death , and maybe you have, then you know that the worst thing of all is not your own fear, but the fear and the pain you see on the faces of those you love. They visit. They take care of you when you can't take care of yourself, you invalid. They make you tea and bring it up to you in bed, place it next to your ever-present IV. Some show up with small gifts of pastries or fruit salad. They dodge between home nurses and physical therapists. Some of these friends will quietly cry next to you on the bed when they think you are sleeping in a narcotic induced haze. Others will step out into the garden and hide behind the hollyhocks and shed their grief to the pollen, to the grass. Still others, at least one, grasps your hands firmly, stares you square in the eye and pleads with you not to die. Please, he says, Please don't leave me. I can't do this without you. And this, this means everything. This is where you get your will to live. So it's circular, but you live for them, not so much for you, because for you, you are tired of the pain and the surgeries and the drugs and the diagnoses and the countless doctors and scans and radioactive shit they pump into you. You would give up, but you can't. Not yet. Not now. You promised.

It all happens so fast; whisked from diagnoses (cancer) to surgery (surgical oncology). You are appointed to the best of the hospital; the best melanoma surgeon they have. His name is David. You meet him twice, but hardly notice any details about him. He seems kind and blushes easily. But really, all you notice, all you hear, are the details as he outlines your lymph node biopsy and removal, the wide-excision they will have to make to get "clear margins", the chemotherapy that will surely follow, the depth of your melanoma (over the line), the doctor he recommends you to at Dana Farber. You take his card. You take the information about Dana Farber Cancer Treatment Center. You make the requisite calls, but mostly you are numb and all of this organizing is automated. Not quite real.