8 DEATH SENTENCES, 1 SURVIVOR’S TRIUMPH OVER STAGE 4 CANCER
“Given three days to live, Gina, a self-proclaimed ‘anxiety-riddled artist,’ refused to accept her fate. This darkly humorous and poignant memoir chronicles her defiant journey through misdiagnosis, medical apathy, and the harrowing realities of end-stage cancer care. Discover how Gina, armed with pudding, unwavering cynicism, and a healthy dose of rage, outsmarted a system that had given up on her and reclaimed her life against all odds. A book that will show you to never doubt your intuition and hand your power over to others. A book I couldn’t put down. Gina’s story will inspire you to fight for yourself, even when all seems lost. – Taryn Gray”
The Dead Girls Guide to Terminal Cancer
I spent most of 2019 with my heart in the wrong place. (Not a metaphor.)
I was just an abnormal, anxiety-riddled artist trying to live her best (and mostly sarcastic) life. Then, cancer tried to squeeze in. I closed my eyes and tried to make it disappear. Within the span of weeks, it seemed I no longer had cancer… but the cancer very much had me.
I was 46 years old, and I was fine. Then I wasn’t.
Then I continued to spiral downward towards death. Deeper. Deeper. Closer. Holy shit. Just three days left to live, and then…
Bam. A sudden stop. And then a very violent recovery that took me from the rock bottom of rotting to the tippy top of health and vitality.
Within the span of 3 months.
This book is not about “How to Cure Cancer,” because that is subjective to the person and their particular brand of cancer.
I trust no one less than the voice I inevitably hear from some corner of the internet, shouting about a “cure” after I say the word “cancer.”
So quick to interject, they inevitably miss the part where I state that I no longer have cancer.
“But wasn’t it Stage Four? You can’t get rid of Stage Four cancer!”
Well. You don’t know me yet. But soon you will, all too well. And you’ll see one angry, terrified girl take on every doctor she meets, to regain the life that belongs to her.
Mine is not a “normal” cancer story. It has some gut-wrenching sadness. It has some moments of joy in random and odd places. It has terror. It has an abundance of anger, ego and self-determination. I could suppose I could name all the emotions, and they’d fit in somewhere during that year.
If we were to meet in January of 2019, and not again until January 2020, you wouldn’t know I’d had 8 different death sentences. In fact, with the smile and glow of health I carried that year, you might think I had taken the year off, or just returned from an extended vacation.
I went to hell. It was a trip. Not sure I’d call it a vacation. But the point is, how? How did I not only cheat death, but come out healthier than I went in?
I think you need to see what I learned during my time in end-stage cancer care — what the doctors said, what the medical system did to someone who was deemed “unsalvageable.” Because I was. And I was told a lot of shocking things because of the idea that dead girls tell no tales. I was given 0% odds of surviving August 2019.
Which begs the question: What the hell?
I get that a lot, but honestly, it’s not that complicated. Any time someone asks me what saved my life, I answer truthfully.
Pudding.
Welcome to my life and to my cancer story. You probably won’t need tissues, because spoiler alert: I don’t die at the end.
But why pudding? Why write this book at all?
I had to empty the contents of this story out of my head. Countless times on my journey I’d been told to write it down because it gives people hope. Hope that even when everyone tells you you’ve only 3 days left to live, instead of breaking down, you CAN roll your eyes back in your head, and simply say: no.
Because ultimately, I did do that. There’s no medical reason I survived. I shouldn’t have. My treatment had no treatment, my doctors didn’t doctor, my care had no CARE. And I knew it then, as well as I know it now.
So, I refused to let that bullshit win. And I refused to die.
I had a plan. But I needed help. I had one bass-player husband, and two parents who had watched my antics for 46 years at that point. Oh. And I almost forgot to mention my thrilling Medicaid card. Geez. Hate to leave out that piece of crap.
But there we are at the middle. I have no health. I have absolutely nothing going for me. No one believes I’m not just going to die at any moment.
How did I get there? How did I become that enraged, eye-rolling, cynical asshole that infuriated 3 hospitals?
And how the hell did I pull it off?
It’s all in there. My words. Seth’s words. My doctor’s words. My doctor’s lies.
And my unwavering anxiety, my oldest and dearest lifelong companion. You’ll see how it is the true hero of the story.
I played an ultimate game of chess with the medical system; winner gets my life.
