I was told I only had six weeks to live. I was told the chemo was ineffective. I was told the cancer had traveled. I was told the headache was a sign the end was right around the corner. Six weeks. That’s not even two months. High school football seasons are longer than the prognosis. I did not wallow in self pity. I did not allow my family and friends to mourn my death before it even arrived. I lived my life. I did not waste one day, one hour, one minute. All grudges I had were forgotten. My sister and I just went back to how things were before years ago before we both said things we regretted. I cherished the sunrise, not upset at being up so early. I relished the sunset, not regret being up late. I didn’t ignore or forgive people who said nasty things about me, I didn’t even hear them. I did not worry about how many likes my posts got, I did not stress about how many followers I had. I stopped even looking at social media altogether. I did not listen to this pundit argue and that expert complain. I didn’t watch the news. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was what I did with each minute I had left and was not going to throw it away. Six weeks is what the doctors said. I have been living my best life for six months now. That six week prognosis is the best thing that ever happened to me.