Megan Rosemarie
Death, Dying, Love, & Europe (& COVID?)
(AKA when I think about this year as a most-likely terminally-ill cancer patient)
Megan Nelms wrote this memoir in the summer of 2022. She wanted to document how much joy she squeezed out of life — even as it neared its end. Let this be a reminder to seize every opportunity and "do all the things," as Megan would say.
So memorable. So Megan.
For more backstory, visit About This Project.
When I made plans for 2022, I knew that, statistically, I would die within the next five years. In fact, five years was a best-case scenario, so I wasn’t going to allow myself to be complacent. I’d undergone two stem cell transplants for a very aggressive form of Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML). My goal was that, as soon as I was able to travel, I’d be on the next flight to Paris to squeeze every moment out of my remaining time.
I’ll start off by saying I graduated medical school in 2021 with $371K in student loan debt, and without a penny to my name. Of that, $20K was in interest alone. Due to AML, I was in no shape to start a residency, and I ultimately had no job prospects at the time given how post-graduate medical education works in the United States. I relied on help from family, friends, and credit cards to finance my travels, knowing I would likely not be alive long enough to even remotely worry or care about these expenses.
If I do live 20+ more years, the joke will absolutely be on me
— and I’ll be grateful for it.
So, in November of 2021, I hopped on a plane to Paris with my mom, my sister, and my Aunt Pam, who kindly arranged buddy passes for our six-day jaunt. Why Paris? It was an easy direct flight from Atlanta and a good way to start my travels while medically fragile. At the time, France was strictly enforcing COVID-19 masking and vaccination policies, and as an immunocompromised cancer patient, it felt like a safe place to start.
Paris did not disappoint. You hear about people being disappointed by the lack of hospitality, the dog shit littering the streets, and the smell. I still loved it. And I knew I’d need to come back again for a longer stay. I ate at one of my bucket list restaurants, Frenchie Rue de Nil, which had the Michelin tasting menu of what dreams are made. I met my favorite celebrity chef, Gregory Marchand.
My sister and I even met some lovely French boys (stone-cold hotties, I might add) and the night was straight from a movie. We spent the entire night drinking French wine and gin fizzes — talking, laughing, attempting to speak French. We ended up at their flat and “dot dot dot,” as Sophie from Mamma Mia might say. Warning: There will be more Mamma Mia references.
Suffice it to say, after two years of cancer treatment, I had an amazing trip. During my six days in Paris, I decided I had unfinished business with the French.
I knew I would be back.
I would take French lovers, attempt to learn the language, and travel all over the country by train, and that’s exactly what I did. When I returned home from my six-day trip, I immediately booked a small flat for two months in St. Ambroise, located in the 11th arrondissement of Paris.
It would be the longest and farthest I’d ever been from home. I would be mostly alone, but I was in remission, my blood counts were excellent, and it was as good a time as ever to pull the trigger and take the trip of a lifetime. I might not have another chance like it.
When I think about how far I’ve come in 2022, I think about how terrified I was when I arrived in France. I was lonely, I couldn’t speak the language, I felt crippled to leave my apartment just to go get groceries. I felt like a failure. I almost turned right around and went home.
[Fast-forward to the beginning of June, where I navigated from Paris, to Sofia, Bulgaria, to Athens, Greece, even taking a ferry to Paros in the Greek Islands. I hopped on a random ferry to Antiparos just to explore another island — alone. I started my day with a Greek breakfast, cappuccino freddo, and fresh-squeezed orange juice, then finished with a solo dip in the Aegean Sea.
I had to leave Paros alone when my friends got COVID-19, just to barely make a flight in Athens after a very delayed ferry ride. I went from hardly being able to leave my tiny Parisian flat to navigating all over Europe with ease. I went from needing assistance to use the restroom and bathe (just 6 months prior) to walking an average of eight miles per day, just to explore different neighborhoods and cities.]
I remember navigating a three-hour train ride to Normandy with my dad. We arrived in a quaint, gentile medieval town called Bayeux with a breathtaking cathedral dating back to 1077 in the presence of William the Conqueror (who is supposedly my 33rd great-grandfather, but that is another story).
We backpacked through St. Laurent sur Le Mer, walking miles and miles from Omaha beach through rural Normandy, thinking we would surely get stuck there without taxis or Ubers. We talked about using our glass Orangina bottles as makeshift weapons if anyone tried to fuck with us. (Don’t worry, the people were lovely, but it did get scary-remote at times.)
We hopped on the wrong train to Caen instead of Paris but made the most incredible memories. We stopped at a one-man restaurant for a local and truly authentic veal roast in Reims (La Fontaine) after a champagne tasting on an empty stomach at GH Martel. We explored the Reims automobile museum, which was like watching a kid (the kid being my dad) in a candy shop. We felt like true adventurers.
Seeing my dad’s amazement at the cycling culture, the mastery of the French canal system, and his unimpressed attitude towards the Eiffel Tower was a treat in itself. Anywhere Greg could get un bière et une cappuccino (~et voila~), he was then having the best moment and meal of his life — no matter what it was.
My dad can find joy in any small moment, and I learned a lot from him on this trip.
Aside: To this day, my dad knows my love language is picking up the odd Orangina he can find in specialty shops and surprising me with it. I type this from a hospital room, looking at a black bag full of eight glass bottles of Orangina.
I remember guiding my mom to Reims as well, 45 minutes by train to the Champagne Region. We toured the beautiful Champagne caves at Ruinart — Hitler’s favorite champagne, which seemed like an odd brag. We saw the Pommery properties and Chateaus. We walked through Reims to find a quaint family-run restaurant on Valentine’s Day and enjoyed a delicious homemade risotto special and tarte tatin for dessert. We could see the Notre Dame de Reims from our hotel window, and what an incredible sight it was.
We ate incredible fois gras at Las Crayeres Chateau. We also ate not-so-great escargot at a traditional establishment that I will not defame for fear of French retribution. We ate the best roasted cauliflower of our lives at LouLous (the Louvre restaurant, not the most authentic establishment I’m sure, but wonderful nonetheless). I also recall my mom’s sheer panic as she walked through the never-ending catacombs, as I struggled to control my laughter at her expense.
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I remember exploring Paris and Amsterdam with my friends Tabitha and Andreea and how enamored they were with all things Paris. It was like seeing it through new eyes all over again. After four weeks in Paris, I had come to the conclusion that “If you’ve seen one cathedral in France, you’ve seen them all” — already a jaded mademoiselle, if you will. Tabitha and Andreea changed this for me, taking time to marvel at every architectural detail on 35-mm film as we wound through tiny cobblestone streets. We thrifted together for hours upon hours.
I was infuriated when we missed our train to Amsterdam and had to stow away on the next available train. But I soon calmed down and remembered we were on our way to mother-fucking Amsterdam, so how could I stay mad.
I recall the coffee shops, terrible weather, and the death stairs up to our flat. There were canals, the red-light district, amazing cappuccinos, and all the disgustingly fulfilling tasting menus.
As for the city of love… I remember telling my Aunt Pam that I had trouble falling for guys too easily, to which she told me,
“Fall for all of them.” So that’s what I did.
(Some names changed for privacy.)
I remember all of the boys and infatuations in Paris. There was Pierre and his kindness. He made me feel like the most special and intriguing girl. He showered me with compliments and gave me hope someone might be able to love me again after cancer treatment. He was unfazed by the port in my chest and made me feel worthy. I met Pierre on my first trip to Paris, and we reconnected when I came back. He was just as lovely and kind as I remembered. He made six, yes SIX, eggs in the morning and rambled about how hard it was to get Frank’s Red Hot and Mountain Dew (his American favorite) in Paris.
Pierre told me his favorite movie was the one-and-only Boogie Nights, to which we then obviously made out (dot, dot, dot) to “Spill My Wine” from the movie’s soundtrack. He was half-Spanish and half-Bostonian, born and raised in France. He was fluent in four languages. He was reading Crime and Punishment for fun. He had Klimt paintings on his walls. Pierre was the ultimate panty dropper.
I didn’t see him after that second night, but I won’t ever forget him. I’d like to think Pierre fondly remembers the crazy American girl that came back to France and wanted to see him her first weekend there. Although, in hindsight, I am probably just the crazy American girl.
But c’est la vie.
I remember Thierry and his patience with me, helping me become more comfortable with myself when I felt betrayed by my post-cancer body. I broke down in his arms and he comforted me, telling me that if both of us weren’t having fun, then neither of us was having fun. Thierry was vulnerable with me about his depression, anxiety, and struggles with life. He had a lovely accent, and I loved the way he said “Chicago” (shee-cah-geaux). “Why aren’t Americans saying it this way?” he would ask, genuinely perplexed.
He made me laugh so much at his stand-up comedy shows. He gently worked with me until I was comfortable around him, which in turn made me feel more at-home in my post-cancer body — bruises, scars, and all. Intimacy post cancer can be traumatic, and it was something I was able to work through with him.
Thierry said he really did care for me like I cared for him, and in another life, if the timing was ever right, I think we could have been something. But again, c’est la vie. He is happy now with someone, and I am happy now with someone new. I can genuinely look back on these exquisite little loves and heartaches with a perspective I never knew I could have.
Of course, I remember the many exciting dates with various (usually pretentious) French men and their oddities, never ceasing to amuse me. In my experience, a French man never misses an opportunity to use the word “obviously,” as if he already knows all the world’s secrets. I remember first date kisses and the apparently very French post-date move: a walk in the park or around the block after a date, linking arms.
I’ve learned that you can have so many beautiful types of relationships with people — people that you still cherish and respect without having to squeeze every last drop out of what could have been.
And that in itself is really beautiful.
To have made all of these special and unique connections all over the world that still make my heart feel something when I think about each of them.
And how could I forget the most glorious fig of all figs — brûléed to perfection at a restaurant called Umami by Han.
I remember when my childhood friend Callie came to visit and how I had never laughed with someone so much. And I think if I have a soul mate on this earth, it is most certainly her. She is one of the best people I’ve ever known, and the fact that we were brought back together intermittently through the years was ultimately part of a bigger plan. I knew she’d be ready to travel with me the moment I got better. I texted Callie my travel ideas throughout the pandemic and cancer treatment, unsure they would ever come to fruition, but I’m so glad they did. We really made it.
She helped me find my true self in 2022, and I love her so much.
I loved going to Michelin restaurants with Callie. I made her be bougie with me, going wildly over her “typical traveling daily meal allowance.” Then she reminded me we should probably tone it down. She is a self-proclaimed woman of the people and will not let vegetables blistering in the hot, hot sun deter her from eating the People’s Food. Food poisoning be damned. I, on the other hand, am most happy eating Parmigiano Reggiano six ways and any and all ridiculously gastronomic versions of foam.
I complained while climbing down Nietzsche’s terrible walkway in Èze — “It’s only a short 45-minute walk down, Megan.” Fast forward two hours later and we were still descending. Amor fati my ass. Callie gladly ripped pompous Monaco to shreds and made a mad dash (literally, we had to sprint to catch this train) to escape that godforsaken country with absolute shit cell service.
Our week in the south of France was magical, visiting Menton, Nice, Èze, and even the asshole of the French Riviera: Monaco.
It was absolutely surreal.
I owe Callie a lifetime of window seats after pleading with her for the train window seat back to Paris, then immediately passing out right as the train left — not even to enjoy one moment of the Provence scenery I so badly wanted to admire through the window.
I remember London with my sister Abbie and ruining her trip as I sobbed — over a man that didn’t deserve my tears — to the sweet, sweet sounds of “Chiquitita” on repeat.
I ate the best Indian food I’ve ever had at Dishoom, and we giggled in our Notting Hill “loft” as we ordered Taco Bell at midnight. (There’s nothing like a European Taco Bell menu at midnight).
I got absolutely hammered on gin and tonics (G&Ts) before going through customs back to Paris. I was terribly but unapologetically underdressed for Eurostar business class. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been a better sister and companion on this trip, Abbie, but it still meant a lot to me. I hope I still have time left to truly make this up to you somehow.
I remember my Majorcan friend, Miguel Horrach Fiol, who may have been the most random and serendipitous friend I made during my time in France. I had a hard time making friends (with the French being so notoriously friendly), so I showed up to his bar crawls week after week to try to meet other travelers.
It worked, but Miguel was the biggest gem of them all — a true free spirit with a passion for life, wine, food, everything. “A free bird,” as he would call himself. He was an incredible friend and made my trips in Paris one of a kind. Miguel was a Roland-Garros partner to remember forever and an incredible wine and cheese tasting companion. With him I experienced my first time playing tennis on grass courts, and, without a doubt, met a lifelong friend.
Until we meet again in Majorca, my friend. I hope you have a long happy life with your absolutely lovely bride, Emily. And to Emily: Thank you so much for letting me borrow your lovely husband from time to time during my stays in Paris.
He is one of the good ones, and I generally don’t even believe in the concept of good men.
He is an exceptional person and a cut above the rest.
To my little street in St. Ambroise, 5 Cite Popincourt: you will always have part of my heart. It is a part of me — my second home.
To my fromagerie with the most decadent truffle cheese, my marché with my beloved fresh OJ and Orangina, my Boulanger with my pain chocolate: j’adore.
Thank you to Juliana, my Airbnb host, for being my Parisian mom and guide.
I stayed in Paris from January 20 to March 14 of 2022 and was lucky enough to return to Europe once more from May 27 to June 12 to go to a wedding in Bulgaria.
Bulgaria was an absolute dream. We flew into Sofia and made our way south to the oldest living city in Europe, Plovdiv. Plovdiv is beautiful and covered in Roman ruins with Roman stadiums and amphitheaters excavated for all to see. In fact, the Plovdiv H&M even has a glass floor to where you can view some of the Roman amphitheater ruins while simultaneously purchasing fast fashion.
Another friend, Bailey, and I had recently reconnected, and she’d very graciously invited me to come to her wedding in Bulgaria. Bailey was my best friend in grades 6-7. Callie, Bailey, and I were a triad of sorts, and I have a lot of what we’re now calling “core memories” with these two. I don’t think she expected me to immediately take her up on her offer to fly to Bulgaria in five weeks, but as an unemployed woman with absolutely nothing to lose, I of course accepted immediately.
Bailey and George, her groom, went to our high school together and reconnected during the pandemic. Going to their wedding in Bulgaria was one of the very best and full-circle moments of my life. Their American ceremony took place in a Roman amphitheater in Plovdiv, and the Bulgarian civil ceremony took place at a vineyard called Villa Yustina, which was one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places I’ve ever been.
I can’t even come close to expressing the joy of reconnecting with the Fradys and being there, exploring Bulgaria. I saw friends from high school that I didn’t even think would remember me by name: Savannah, Trevor, Baber, and Nick — thank you for welcoming me. I had such a good time catching up with you all.
I’ve never danced so much at a wedding or had so much fun.
Perri Valentine Rabbitt Pruitt, the sweetest gal with the most iconique name, and her sweet husband, Taylor, get a shout out for being the friendliest, most genuine people I’ve ever met.
I would trust them with my newborn baby after knowing them less than 24 hours — which is a pretty low-stakes thing for me to say considering I am in a stone-cold cancer induced menopause.
But, nonetheless, I love those two.
And then there’s Greece ...
If Greece is the last place I ever get to visit, I’m quite sure it is the closest place to heaven on earth — and that’s exactly where you can find me in another life. Floating on top of the Aegean Sea with nothing on my mind but my next cappuccino freddo and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Oh, and the old man on Paros’s goat cheese that everyone is always going on about. It’s the real deal. The crystal-clear blue water is to die for, the people are so friendly, and the food is incredible. In my limited travels, there has been nothing quite like it.
Emily, Callie, Sammie: Thank you for being the best Mamma Mia Streepheads a girl could ask for. Blasting ABBA with you babes as we drove through the winding hills of Paros was an absolute treat in itself.
The water is one of my favorite places to be, and I wasn’t able to swim in summer 2021 due to infection concerns and having a central line. So, it was everything I could have ever dreamed to be able to submerge my body in the Aegean Sea’s crystal-clear, blue, pristine waters after not being able to swim recreationally for an entire year. It didn’t cure my cancer (which is honestly rude), but I won’t hold that against it.
I’ll remember 2022 as the year I truly lived.
Unencumbered by fear.
Knowing what little precious time I could possibly have left.
And soaking in every moment, every joy, every love, every heartbreak, every experience.
And feeling so much life with every breath I took into my body — knowing that all of this was such a god-damn gift.
And to be able to share it with the people I love while creating so many memories was an even greater gift.
Even if it was short and sweet.
Remember me this way forever.
Mom: Thanks for convincing me to have another transplant and being my stem cell donor. I wouldn’t have done it without you in my corner, and I wouldn’t have been blessed with all this incredible “extra” time and these memories. Thank you for nodding your head and offering to send me off to Paris with your lovely Amex card.
Sadly, this crazy life never seemed all that worth it to me until this past year. I couldn’t find the meaning of it — but I was doing it all wrong. I wasn’t living it for me. I was living for medical school, for residency, for some ideal and expectations that no one put on me but myself. I think most of us are doing it wrong.
But I get it now. Life? It’s pretty great. Cancer gave that to me, and I hope everyone can make the same discovery without having to go through what I did.
Friends: I hope you’ll all talk to me sometimes as if I were there. I’d love to hear your voices from time to time, wherever I may be. Keep seeing new places for me.
That brings me up to the present moment. After another 15 months of remission, I relapsed shortly after returning from Greece. I have options for life extension, and perhaps a very small chance of cure, but I will be back in patient mode for a while. As a person with blood cancer, I have been incredibly lucky to get the chance to travel so far from home with the complexities of low blood counts, transfusion needs, and infection risk. I know I am lucky.
And to the lovely boy I’m seeing right now, Cooper: No matter what happens, you’ve been such a gem. You deserve to be happy, and I wish you got to do it with someone with less complexity involved. But I’ve been so grateful for you and have truly enjoyed getting to know you over the past few months. I think you are one of a kind. I would understand if you couldn’t do this with me. But for the past month, my heart has been happy, and I’m holding on to that for as long as I can.
After traveling the world, I found you right under my nose in Atlanta, willing to be by my side. That’s another amazing little gift that I surely do not deserve. I love you.
I also want to take this moment to bless the U.S. government with my fat tab of $371K medical school loan debt. I took out full living expenses during med school, all on your dime, and really lived it up. At least Joe covered one person’s bill. We did it Joe! (I am very liberal but come on, making cancer patients pay back $371K in loans? Or anyone for that matter? Fuck y’all.)
But I’ll be going through this cancer fight one more time if it means I get to taste a little bit more of what this life has to offer. I don’t regret it for one moment and truly feel fulfilled.
I can die absolutely and completely happy, knowing I did squeeze every little, tiny, last drop out of life.
Megan out :)
For more backstory, visit About This Project.