Shocking experience: How I Came From the Grave

One day after my birthday, three years ago, I started having visions. I felt as if honey were pouring out of my eyes. I had been diagnosed with breast cancer 18 months earlier, but after treatment, I thought I was on my way to recover. Four days later, I was told that I had another breast cancer in my brain.

I survived the first operation to remove the mountain tumor, but within a few weeks he returned despite radio therapy. He was taken away again, and soon thereafter, in October 2015, I was told that I would die. I was 42 years old. The doctors told me there was no hope for me. Nothing to do. Nobody expected cancer not to come back; My parents gave me several months, not a few years, so I began preparing for my last Christmas.

It was my idea, translate Periscope, to go to my funeral; I wanted him to be a celebration of my life. I had a strong desire to be with my friends for the last time. The membrane, who has such a chance? It's too late when you're already dead.

Three weeks later, on a stormy November day in Stoke, we gathered in a restaurant called “Kisha”. Two hundred and fifty people came. There were friends from elementary school, from university, clients, and colleagues from the marketing agency where I had worked; even my kickbox instructor came in. Unfortunately, my mother, Carol, couldn't afford that and didn't come. Dad, Allen, was there, but he said that thing was terrible. After my sister Stephen died of meningitis years ago, he was terrified that he would lose me as well.

Sounds like something shallow, but I felt terribly aware of my swollen face the result of the asteroids I had taken. I refused to take pictures with me. And some that I would die, and it was important for me not to be reminded of on that door.

As the guests came, we took pictures of them and put them in the “Life Tree”, along with the memories people themselves had written. A college friend told me that I was the first feminist she ever met. Another wrote: “I just don't know what I'm going to do without you.” There were also joyful moments, and there were memories of pantball sessions and trips to Las Vegas. Another friend made my face on the favorite magazine.

It was important to me that it was a proper celebration, so we brought food, drink and music before the elogues. My husband, Dean, and others shared their thoughts about me and what it meant to me.

I felt at peace and receptive; as a Christian, I felt secure in the knowledge that I would go to heaven, Paradise. But, as Periscopi translates, no matter how lofty, everyone around me was upset. It was shocking to see the photos later had a superficial holiday spirit, but when I saw my friends ' faces they looked in great pain.

The day after the “General” I woke up and thought: “That's it, now it's going to shit everything.” My Oncologist said I'd start sleeping more, then sleep more than I would be smart, and finally go to the hospital to die. I didn't have a wish list. I just wanted the daily life with Dean to last as long as possible.

But even though I had stopped treatment, my tumor did not grow. Day after day, I began to live my normal life again, although I had been devastated by the fear of dying. Even the slightest pain in my knee would make me think that cancer had returned.

Now I celebrated my 5th anniversary since the initial diagnosis, and oncologist considers me cured. He said that he had known just another patient in his 20 years at work who managed to outdo it. I attribute my recovery to the brain surgeon who saved my life, and my belief in God.

My funeral day was devastating. I felt as if I were swimming in a river of love. No one felt that I made them feel pain, even though I feel guilty sometimes about how much my loved ones have suffered. When you look at death in your face and are somehow allowed to take a step back, you feel great gratitude. The glorious normality is what I now live for even though I am, in the words of a nurse, a woman of miracles. /Periscope