Chapter 5

I had nowhere to go.

I searched online and rented the cheapest furnished room I could find by the week.

The walls were cracked and peeling, and street noise filtered in through the thin windows, but at least I had a roof over my head.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, looking at the $8,000 in my account, despair crept back in.

Eight grand was a drop in the bucket for advanced cancer treatments.

Next round of chemo, targeted drugs, blood panels... this money wouldn't last two months.

I had to make money. A lot of it. Fast.

But in my condition, what could I do?

No physical labor. No regular 9-to-5 company would hire a walking corpse.

I scrolled through freelance gig boards until I saw a listing: "Urgent: Remote Data Entry Clerk. Daily payout. Basic software skills required. High attention to detail."

Remote? Daily pay?

I messaged the poster immediately via Snapchat.

They replied within minutes. I hid my illness, only stating that I was recently laid off and available for immediate remote work.

They sent over a test file: 2,000 entries to format and log within two hours, with an error rate under 0.3%.

I booted up my battered laptop and started typing.

My head spun. Spots danced in my vision. My fingers shook uncontrollably from weakness.

Keep going. Don't stop.

Two hours later, I submitted the file.

The reply came back shortly:

"Error rate: 0.15%. You're hired. Daily assignments sent by 8:00 AM. Payouts processed every evening via PayPal. $25 per day."

Twenty-five dollars.

Not even enough for a bottle of prescription anti-nausea meds.

But it was a start.

I closed the chat, inhaled deeply, and began scouring every freelance platform, Upwork, and Craigslist for anything I could do from bed.

Virtual assistant gigs, proofreading, simple graphic templates, commercial copywriting...

I didn't care what it was. As long as it paid and could be done on a laptop, I took it.

I wanted to live.

The following weeks blurred into an agonizing routine of work and physical pain.

I operated like a clockwork machine. Apart from forced sleep and basic outpatient checkups at a public clinic, my eyes were glued to the screen.

When dizziness hit, I leaned against the desk.

When I threw up, I rinsed my mouth and kept typing.

When I coughed up blood, I wiped my chin and swallowed generic coagulants.

I stretched that $8,000 as far as it would go. Apart from rent and cheap groceries, every cent went toward keeping the tumor from spreading.

I knew I was walking a tightrope, but I had no other choice.

Occasionally, through former coworkers who still checked in on me, snippets of news from home reached my ears.

Leo had bought his suburban townhouse. Wedding preparations were underway, and Vanessa's parents were thrilled.

Mom bragged to all our relatives about what an incredible son she had raised, never once mentioning the daughter fighting for breath in a rundown rental.

They were thriving, pretending I had never existed.

My heart was completely numb to it.

Survival was my only mission.

One afternoon, while drafting a pitch deck for a startup client, I stumbled upon a case study about crowdfunding.

The realization hit me like lightning.

Why hadn't I thought of that?

Baring my trauma to the world felt terrifying. But compared to dying, what did pride matter?

I spent the night researching GoFundMe, studying the guidelines and verification steps.

Detailed medical diagnoses, itemized bills, an honest story, third-party verification...

I gathered all my medical records, lab reports, and billing statements. I took a raw, unfiltered photo of my emaciated face and bruised veins, and wrote out my story with brutal honesty.

I didn't exaggerate the cruelty. I simply laid out the bare facts: worked for years to support my family, savings drained by relatives upon diagnosis, currently unable to afford life-saving chemo.

I shared the link with three former colleagues I still trusted, asking them to help verify and repost it.

Then began the agonizing wait.

On day one, the campaign barely moved. A few colleagues threw in $20 or $50.

Then came the cynical comments online:

"Is this even real? So many GoFundMe scams these days."

"Where's her family? No parents would do this."

"Looks sad, but who knows..."

My stomach sank.

Was my last lifeline about to snap?