Bonk Jannie they can’t stop us

>>60595002 (OP)
It started with a dull ache in my back. I thought it was stress. Maybe a pulled muscle. But then came the nausea. The weight melted off me like wax, and food began to taste like ash. A scan, a biopsy, then those four words: “You have pancreatic cancer.”

There’s no slow build. No time to plan. By the time they find it, it's already threading itself through your organs, hiding in your blood. The doctor’s voice was soft when he said "months, not years." My wife squeezed my hand, but I barely felt it — like my body had already started leaving me.

The treatments came fast and brutal. Chemo turned my veins into fire. My hair fell out in clumps on the shower floor. I looked in the mirror and saw someone else — yellowed skin, sunken eyes, a stranger with my voice. Eating became a negotiation with pain. Even water turned to acid in my stomach.

But the worst wasn’t the pain. It was the way people looked at me — like I was already halfway gone. Friends stopped calling. My parents spoke to me like I was made of glass. My daughter asked if I’d be there for her birthday next year. I lied.

Now I count hours, not days. Everything smells like antiseptic. The nurses whisper in the hallway. I hear my wife cry through the bathroom door. I want to comfort her, but I can’t even lift my arm anymore.

This is what dying looks like. It’s not noble. It’s not poetic. It’s a slow erasure — cell by cell, breath by breath.

S..s......so I buy?