Live Long, Live Cranky

My mom is certain I am dying. She has proof: a photograph.
I have seen plenty of photos of me before I had cancer that would convince you my time was nigh. But this one, she claims, is the clincher. Proof that once again I am either in denial or lying to her.
I haven't seen this photo. I can only imagine.
My mom has been certain I was dying since I got diagnosed. She has told folks that I am in denial about the severity of my disease. My mom wants to talk to me about my funeral. She wants me to process my feelings about dying with her. She wants to come and take care of me in my final days, which, according to her, are now.
Me, I am very much alive. I just got back from a brisk walk to the ocean. That was after a half hour of yoga and a load of laundry. I am headed out to meet friends in an hour and this afternoon is my two and a half hour stress reduction class. My fantasies these days are of a new career, going back to school, walking across Ireland.
The cancer in my soft tissue isn't currently growing. The cancer in my bones is growing in bits and spots. I have some pain. I'm a little achey. My tummy aches sometimes. My most recent blood work looked good. My tumor markers are the lowest they have been. My oncologist thinks I have years in me.
I am so pissed at my mom that she won't believe I'm doing well. This is my mom through and through, clinging to the worse case scenario and missing the good stuff. The hardest part for me is not trying to convince her otherwise. I should give up.
But then I think perhaps living long and hearty is the best revenge.
My mom's insistence that I'm dying just might keep me alive. Some days I'm so mad, I think: this could cure my cancer.