Imagine being told at your annual physical that you have a cancerous spot on your right lung. Then, in a follow-up that you have a year left to live. One year. That’s all. Imagine having to squeeze all your dreams and plans for the future onto the pages of a single wall calendar. That is what happened to Dawn West, who is still alive today, twenty-six years after that terminal diagnosis.

Dawn and I had been dating for a month when she received the devastating news. After her first diagnosis, we visited other doctors for second opinions. Dawn sought refuting evidence from the Norfolk Naval Hospital and a respiratory clinic in Williamsburg, but they gave the same dire prediction. So, we traveled to a holistic center in Pennsylvania and to North Carolina for the Oncology Clinic at Duke Medical Center. At Duke, a surgeon was willing to try a radical lung surgery that had as much chance of killing Dawn as curing her.

Throughout, Dawn maintained an incredibly optimistic mindset and never wavered in her belief that she would win her battle. When well-meaning friends told her she was in denial, she’d respond, “I’m not in denial; I’m in refusal!” Her one concession was to alter her previously risk-averse stance on hazardous activities. Motorcycles had always intrigued her, but the high rates of fatalities and maiming accidents kept her from hopping on one. “If everyone says I’m going to die anyway,” she thought, “what the hell!” She bought a Honda 450, a motorcycle three times her weight, took a class to learn the basics, and then rode through town dressed head-to-toe in leather as all her daily despairs loosened their bony grip with every mile.

In my book of poetry, Terminal Diagnosis, I revisit that traumatic year that Dawn was not expected to live beyond, the fears and questions that kept us both awake at night, and the stunning relief when the tumor shrank and disappeared. While many poems relive the terror we experienced, in the end, this is a book about hope winning out, a message sorely needed in today’s fractious climate and an example of what is possible for families touched by cancer.

Here’s one poem from that collection:

Death Day

A year ago, the oncologist, eyes downcast,
shoulders slumped, said that today

was as far as she might live.            .Afterwards,
                         time compressed its seasons,

autumn’s encroaching loss, winter’s stark reality,
a spring not meant to bloom……….. that somehow did.

What to do when forecasts prove wrong,
when hurricanes meant to batter shore

veer into open water, when expiration date
marked on your carton in bold, block letters

.                             is struck through, replaced with a blank?

Today, Dawn was supposed to expunge tomorrow
from her vocabulary, and I was supposed to begin

my long trek from the first station of grief.
Instead, we go to Busch Gardens, where skinny teens

cast sideways glances at the two old farts in line.
When our turn comes, we board the Big Bad Wolf,

the roller coaster that suspends its passengers,
feet dangling as they hurtle into the future,

jinking this way and that, everyone screaming,
uncertain when the next drop will come.

The author of six poetry collections, one book of fiction, and hundreds of magazine articles, Bill Glose was featured by NPR on The Writer’s Almanac in 2017 and won the Library of Virginia Award for Fiction in 2023. His poetry has won numerous awards and been widely published in journals, including The Missouri Review, Rattle, Poet Lore, Narrative Magazine, and The Sun. Bill maintains a page of helpful information for writers on his website, www.BillGlose.com.