Illustration by Tai Tan
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My dad’s death was a brutal reminder of how short life is and how little control we really have in the end. Cancer didn’t care what he’d achieved or what type of person he was. It was aggressive and moved with an unfeeling decisiveness.
My dad was a charismatic man who was generous with his time. I’d listen intently to stories about his early career and the adventures that he had in Germany and France. He made travelling sound so exciting. But despite his bold youth, he found himself content as a family man and he loved the mountains where we live in British Columbia. “Why would you ever leave here?” he’d say as we watched the sun setting behind the nearby ski resort.
I could think of a million reasons.
Yet after he died, I stayed in the small city of Rossland and got a good retirement-oriented job at a company with a pension – the same company he used to work for. He had left me some money (about two times my annual salary) and I channelled my grief into growing the windfall for my own retirement.
It was difficult adapting to life without his encouragement. When I got upset, he wasn’t there to coach me to breathe. Tearful moments turned into tearful nights; they didn’t end in minutes anymore with me laughing at myself for being so dramatic. But time marched on.
Four years later I was forced to accept the next part of my inheritance – the cancer gene. In September, 2024, my mom and I sat in the oncology unit in Trail, B.C., and listened to the doctors about an unresectable melanoma that had spread to my spine.
At 41, no one gave me a prognosis, but my body felt like I didn’t have much time.
Google told me less than a year.
I tried to calm myself and hear my Dad’s voice in my head: “In with the good, out with the bad,” I’d repeat as I breathed deeply. Simultaneously, I berated myself because my body was moving at a geriatric pace and still I hadn’t really lived.
Bypass surgery scarred me. But years spent worrying about my heart took a greater toll
I felt so stupid for prioritizing work, for being so timid. I had not travelled but I had maxed out my employee share purchase plan and RRSP every year, content with waiting until I was 60 to start living. I mourned those 20 years that I was no longer going to get with so much ferocity that I became unhinged.
The day I was diagnosed as terminal, I made a decision to spend everything before I died. I bought a motorized bed to help me get up in the mornings, but otherwise I spent money recklessly. I gave away most of my office clothes because I wasn’t going to need them. I bought expensive gifts for most of my friends and family. I booked a trip to Ottawa to visit my aunt and brought my new boyfriend on a whim without even telling her.
I may have been a bit manic but I followed doctors’ orders closely that whole time and took the targeted therapies as prescribed. Within six months, I no longer needed the bed to help me get up and the cancer had stabilized. This was a gift. I was going to live longer than the year that my research had suggested.
So I started planning my travel.
Since my diagnosis, I’ve been to Italy, Spain, Portugal and the Bahamas. I’m grateful that my dad left me the means to chase famous sights such as the Colosseum in Rome or the ruins of Pompeii. Except for nausea and lack of appetite, my stamina held up well until April. My mom and I went to Barcelona, but side effects left my feet aching and callused. I also needed more naps.
My inheritance has given me some control over an illness that’s unpredictable. My current commitment is to spend what’s remaining on travel and unique experiences. If I take someone with me, I have the budget for at least seven more trips. I’ll be able to do even more if I want to brave solo travel.
I have also started a blog about my travels. I want to inspire people to stop putting off cool experiences until later - to travel now while they’re healthy. Also, I hope to empower people who are sick to seek out solutions so they can see the world instead of living life solely by the rhythm of monthly bloodwork and doctor’s appointments.
The best of times for some can be the worst for others
My next trip is to Ireland and France. My boyfriend and I are going to capture this adventure on video and create a miniseries on YouTube. For now, I’m keeping a positive frame of mind. I’m treating the world like I’m going to live, but the memory of my dad’s death keeps me grounded.
I know my expiration date is still sooner than it should be. When I’m too weak to leave my bed and when the pain can’t be medicated, I’ll breathe in deeply and hang onto the good memories.
I’ll know I lived a life that sought out exceptional and pivotal experiences. I want everyone to be able to say the same.
Lauren Smith lives in Castlegar, B.C.