Valentine’s Day started like an average Saturday.
I could also say it started out averagely annoying.

Despite having been awake until the middle of the night, I woke up early in the morning to find that I couldn’t feel my left arm—the one I was lying on. I rolled over to the other side, but barely ten minutes later my right arm went numb as well. Since the sensation returned quickly to the previously “dead” arm each time I turned, I played the spinning game a few more times. But when a burning feeling joined the numbness, I gave up.

Self-love.
I refuse to start swearing—out of principle.

I honestly don’t know what triggered this symptom… but after chemo, it quickly joined the long list of unexplained sensations I’ve collected. Was it my good old carpal tunnel syndrome making a comeback, the one I acquired during pregnancy? The laptop-induced spondylosis from my student years? Or the neuropathy I picked up as a chemo souvenir? Or—metastasis?!?

I brushed that thought away quickly and smiled at myself, impressed by this stage of my personal growth. A few months ago, I would have self-diagnosed even the slightest itch as a fatal neurological deficit and rushed to the doctor. Now, with a cancer diagnosis in my pocket, I shrug at a symptom that could very well be a bone metastasis.

Whatever.

What we don’t know doesn’t hurt—my newest philosophy.
If it is metastasis, then it’s already too late anyway. I’ll mourn it later. Until then, I cling to hope and to life with both hands—or at least I try. With that thought, I put the coffee on.

I recently heard a well-known comedian say in one of his shows that his anxiety lasts only until the thing he fears actually happens. Once it does, he accepts his fate calmly—after all, this was what he was afraid of. So why worry now?

I think I’m a bit like that too. I spent forty-one years fearing every possible life-threatening diagnosis imaginable, and when the big one finally arrives, I’m so surprised that sometimes I forget to be afraid at all.

Before lunch, I stopped by the store. Crowds. Empty shelves in the “healthy” section. Island life.
So what the hell am I supposed to eat? Processed meats are carcinogenic, bread spikes blood sugar, cheese is dairy and might contain hormones. Which of my self-imposed golden rules should I break today?

My phone rings. It’s my husband.

We’ve been living separately for two years now… more or less. Every attempt at starting over has failed spectacularly. But it’s Valentine’s Day. We’re far from our families. And we spent fifteen years as a couple.

An idea strikes.
Let’s go out for lunch.

Perfect.

The past twenty minutes of hopeless browsing were already enough for me to start calculating how many more minutes of hesitation it would take before I wouldn’t even make it to the car. Fatigue. Thanks for this gift too, chemo buddy.

I grab a bar of 100% cocoa chocolate from the shelf—whose taste none of my acquaintances has ever learned to tolerate, but which I imagine into pleasure—hoping it will help me reach the car and magically cure my fatal illness. And just like that, I’m on my way to the meeting.

We’re speeding toward the restaurant together. My husband is driving; I’m exhausted. In my hands is the most beautiful wax bouquet, created by my friend. My husband brought it as a gift for me. The car fills with the scent of cinnamon apples. We praise my friend’s talent—maybe with a hint of envy. There’s nothing else to talk about.

Fifteen years.

The engine hums. Everything feels peaceful—something that rarely happens between us.

I look out the window. We’re driving along the coastline. The sky is blue, the waves ripple gently, sunlight scatters across the water’s surface. In the distance, a stone tower rises from a small island emerging from the sea. Couples and families, dressed nicely and fully put together, stroll along the shore in the rare February sunshine. They look happy.

Whether they truly are doesn’t matter. The doubt actually lightens my heart a little. Like a carefully curated Instagram post.

I close my eyes and enjoy the sun warming my face through the car window. I dissolve into a universal catharsis. What a perfect moment.

There is no tomorrow.
There is only now.

The early spring warms my soul completely, and I can’t stop smiling. The people in the neighboring car probably think I’m crazy—and maybe it’s just my hormones playing tricks on me—but who cares?

I’m free.

Cancer frees my soul from the pressure of perfection, even as it quietly tears it apart. But whatever feels good to me right now is good. Who would dare tell me otherwise? And even if they did—who would care?

I am alive. For how long, who knows?

I have a right to the fullness of this moment. My Valentine is this moment itself—just as fleeting as any love, and just as beautiful.

It’s strange how the finiteness of life, for all its horror, can hold up a magnifying glass to what truly matters and what is beautiful, despite the circumstances. A treasure that those who leave suddenly may never experience.

Or maybe I simply had to walk this path to finally understand the value of being alive.

Now I pray for only one thing:
that I survive as long as possible, and that I am granted as many Valentine moments as I can get—ones that don’t require a prince on a white horse, only the chance to stay.