I Am Dying From Terminal Cancer. Here's What It's Taught Me About Living.

Sparkling bright and eight months pregnant, my French-speaking surgeon in Montreal, Quebec, was perhaps more direct than she would have been in her native language. She’d just removed my uterus and everything else that I could spare from my abdomen, but she was reporting on what she hadn’t been able to remove of the sarcoma that had, in just the weeks waiting for surgery, spread beyond hope in my belly.