I paid 4,000 euros for an ambulance in which I almost died, because I have the right to my life and my death.

On Thursday, May 9, I did something I'd never done in the ten years since I was diagnosed with an ultra-rare sarcoma (extraskeletal myxoid chondrosarcoma) that only affects 1 in a million people: I organized a get-together that felt like a farewell . I gathered my friends and we celebrated at home. There was something in me that knew. That sensed death. It's not for nothing that cancer has invaded my lungs, my pancreas, and my brain. And this last bit is even stranger because there are only 15 reported cases in the world with this type of metastasis . But it didn't come that day. Only the kisses, the hugs, the love. I called it 'the funeral party.' And it was so beautiful that I thought: if I go now, I'm leaving in good company.

But I didn't leave. That same night, I started coughing and bleeding. It had already happened to me in November: hemoptysis . But this time it was different. This time it was real. A real threat. My family got nervous and called an ambulance, but we were in Betanzos, far from the hospital. They put me in a car. Sonia and Lidia, my friends, went ahead to raise the alarm:

—A very sick person is coming, with a hemorrhage. You have to be prepared.

And they were. A stretcher was waiting for me. I was attended by Bruno, a doctor who had been a classmate of mine. Life has these twists and turns: when you're closest to death, the faces that shaped your childhood appear.

The diagnosis wasn't hemoptysis, but pneumonia. They started me on medication to stop the bleeding, but they couldn't guarantee anything.

"If you don't stop, we can't operate on you," they told me. "And if we don't operate on you, there's a risk of death."

All I could think about was going to Madrid, even though some doctors, friends, and even family members told me to stay in La Coruña. That it was crazy. That the trip was too dangerous and I could die. But there was something inside me—call it a hunch, call it fate—that told me that, even though everyone was partly right, I should go to Madrid to survive. It was like a gambler rolling the dice thinking they're going to win.

I was only thinking about Dr. Casado. He had promised me that if I arrived at the San Carlos Clinical Hospital , he would treat me immediately. I clung to that promise like a lifeline. I requested voluntary discharge from La Coruña, even though the gamble was very risky. But it was my gamble and my decision. Not anyone else's. Because only I, as a patient, have the right to decide about my life and my death.

My family, my partner, my friends: everyone made it possible. We arranged for a private ambulance for 4,000 euros—which I'll never get back—with a nurse, a technician, and the love of everyone around me as an emotional shield.

And there, in the ambulance, something happened I'll never forget. They had to put me in the ambulance while I was moving, on a winding road. The technician, while trying to insert an IV, apologized because he couldn't find the vein. Every bump was torture . I was bleeding, and fear was also pouring out through my skin. But the nurse took my hand and said:

—Don't worry, Iara. We'll get there.

And I looked at my brother and Sonia with the desire for that to happen.

We arrived . At 8:30 on Friday morning, I was already entering San Carlos Hospital. They brought me out wearing sunglasses, like a warrior who had just overcome a decisive battle. I felt like I had saved my life. But it wasn't the end: it was the beginning of another maze.

Because the autonomous communities don't understand each other. There was no coordination between hospitals. We carried reports on CDs and USB drives, but not all computers could read them. Sonia and Ramón ran through the hallways with papers. Lidia went to copy shops around Madrid. It took six hours to copy my medical records. And even then, Jorge, the emergency room oncologist, had to start from scratch. They had nothing on me.

In the end, I was admitted that same day. They stopped the bleeding. I started treatment on Monday. Cyclophosphamide. A difficult protocol. Added to that was a blood clot. I was bleeding internally. And if they anticoagulated me, I could die. And if they didn't anticoagulate me, I could die too. I had two ticking time bombs in my body: the cancer and the blood clot. Every doctor seemed to have a piece of my puzzle, but no one saw it as complete.

Still, I kept going. Radiation therapy. Chemotherapy. Transfusions. Waiting. And fear. A lot of fear. But also faith.

Faith that living is a decision. And that, ultimately, that decision isn't the doctor's. It's mine.

Today is May 25th. I'm in the emergency room, but alive. I began this text not knowing if I would write it from life or from the edge. Now I know I'm writing it from the trench. From the body that resists. From the woman who still bleeds, but doesn't give up. From someone who keeps searching for her sword.

Because living, sometimes, is nothing more than that: daring to fight, even when all the odds say no.