The Wrong Terminal Diagnosis

Summary

When I saw the words Stage IV Gastric Cancer printed near the bottom of my pathology report, I curled into a plastic chair in the forgotten corner of the hospital corridor and pressed both hands over my mouth to keep from screaming.

My husband, Thomas, had been dead for thirteen years. Since then, I had worked myself to the bone. Twelve-hour shifts on the factory floor, clipping coupons, wearing shoes until the soles wore thin—all of it so my daughter and I could finally have a decent life. We were just starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. How could it end like this?