death sentence or life sentence

Katherine's Blog

Previously… Katherine is contacted by Nicole, a woman from Windsor who needs a safe haven. Katherine and her sister Tricia start to work on the logistics of the refuge.

October 4 2029 - blog post

It’s funny. When I got the diagnosis I really did try to fight. I really did do everything I knew how to do, and a lot I didn’t know how to do, in order to prolong my time on this Earth. In light of recent events, it’s hard to say whether I should have even bothered.

This blog has always been my designated space for ranting and moping. I write out all my feelings here so I don’t have to burden my family with them. And because I can’t afford to keep up with therapy. This blog has been my therapy for years, and a lot of you reading (are you still out there?) have been with me since the beginning, when I was just venting about the healthcare system and how hard it was to get someone to listen to me.

Now I have the creepiest sense of déjà vu. I feel like I’m back at the beginning of my cancer journey, where I’d just been told it’s real and it’s serious, but my mind and body have not accepted that reality. We’ve been told it’s the fucking end of the world, people. What are we supposed to do?

I can’t really accept it. I don’t know how anyone possibly could. With how much distrust there is in institutions and how much disinformation there is, how could we possibly just take this information at face value? Yes, hundreds of national governments made the same announcement at the same time, but what is that other than potential evidence of the most sophisticated collusion we’ve seen to date?

But I have to wonder, why? What would our governing bodies have to gain from doing that? From what I know, they tend to air on the side of ‘This is fine’ at all times, denying scandal after crisis in an attempt to maintain the facade of normalcy, because panic and hopelessness create a society beyond control.

It’s more likely, in my opinion, that the evidence was just too flagrant to deny. Since I’d first heard of them, the IPCC and other organizations had gone from gentle suggestions to screaming at the tops of their lungs. Climate activists went from weekly roadside protests to gluing themselves to famous works of art to self-immolation every few days. Spring has come twenty days early for the past four years until winter is not much more than one-metre dumps of snow that melt within days, over and over.

When they told me the cancer was going to end my life, they couldn't give me a timeline. Too many variables. It feels like that’s what’s happening now. The Earth has been given a terminal diagnosis, but there’s no timeline, no path. I’ve never died before – how am I supposed to know how to do it? A lot of people with terminal diagnoses work until they die. They have to – how else can they help their family, keep themselves housed and fed? Yes, many get on Disability like I did, but I can only survive this way because I live with my mom and because you all subscribe to my writing and donate.

Besides, sometimes a death sentence turns into a life sentence. Instead of slowly wasting away, people rally. Their cancer doesn’t disappear, but nor does it go the expected route.

I admit, that’s what I’ve hoped for. I don’t want to die of cancer. Precious nutrients rerouted to feed the insatiable cancer cells. Starvation. Organs invaded and shut down.

But what does death of climate change look like? I can’t help but see the parallels. Billionaires still have disproportionate power – they made sure to accumulate it while their extractive and destructive corporations fuelled disinformation campaigns to buy them a few more years of climate change denial.

So they bought islands and built bunkies and curated armies and armed them. And those armies guard the hoard from the hoards. But eventually people are going to get angry enough and hungry enough and then what? The guards protecting the billionaires are going to want what they can argue is rightfully theirs, built on the backs or their labour. At that point, there’s only guns and reinforced doors between the billionaires and the masses.

I really think I’d rather die from cancer. I wonder if Medical Assistance in Dying will still be around in a couple years when my time is up? I wonder how many people are applying now? One of the conditions is intolerable suffering. I’d say that’s inevitable. Another is imminent demise. Another check.

Sorry. I know I’m ranting. I’m trying to make sense of the insensible. I don’t want to die, but I really don’t want to suffer. I’m trying to predict how all this is going to go down. But there’s too many fucking variables. And there’s something happening in my brain that slams to a halt whenever I try to imagine a certain distance down the path. I noticed this when I got my diagnosis as well. I could imagine the very end, the hospital bed, the frailty. But I couldn’t see how I got there, the minute changes that, when compounded, take away a life.

What’s happening where you are? Please don’t lose contact. As long as we have this, let’s use it. Don’t forget about me. I’ll try to remember you.

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A note from the author - Hello, dear readers. I apologize for the break in chapters. I had to wage war on my insecurity. But I didn’t want to fight, so I decided to fall in love instead. I had to remind myself that I’m offering a gift and any subscribers are here of your own free will. I want to craft for you a compelling, prescient tale of a young woman who is not unlike myself in many personal ways - a woman who wants to offer hospice to a dying world and its wounded inhabitants. What I’m writing is my own fear about what could happen if all the wrong dominos fall. I also figure, unless I’m a modern-day Cassandra, if I write this out, it’s less likely to become true (no one tag Margaret Atwood). Hand on heart, I thank you.