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.