I hosted my own ‘living funeral.’ Doctors don’t think I’ll make it to the holidays and I wanted to see all my loved ones again.

• April Fenk has a rare form of cancer. Doctors say she is unlikely to make it to the holidays.
• She hosted a celebration of life, otherwise known as a living funeral, inviting family and friends.
• The single mother of three said the room, filled with love and laughter, helped her with “closure.”

This story is based on a conversation with April Fenk, 38, from New Orleans. It has been edited for length and clarity.

When my mom and I saw the silver gown in the store window, I knew I had to buy it.

I hadn’t gotten married in a fancy white dress. And I’d missed my high school prom.

But I was about to attend the most important party of my life, and I wanted to look as glamorous as possible. It might sound morbid, but I was determined to make a statement at my living funeral.

I had a hectic lifestyle as a busy single mom who also worked long hours

I was diagnosed with stage 3 cervical cancer in June 2024 at the age of 36. I’d had an abnormal PAP test six months earlier, but, as a busy single mother of three boys — Ethan, now 15, Eli, 11, and 6-year-old Ezra — I kept putting off a follow-up.

My reluctance was confounded by my hectic job as a hostess at a popular bar in New Orleans, trying to provide for my family.

That summer, however, when I was working in my garden, I sat down to take a little break in between watering some plants. When I stood up, there was a steady stream of blood. I wrapped myself in a blanket and drove to the hospital.

I received two blood transfusions before having a pelvic exam and a biopsy. The doctor was blunt: he said he suspected something was seriously wrong, likely cancer.

The wait for the biopsy results was agonizing. Still, I was in denial, thinking that his fears were unfounded. Two weeks later, my parents accompanied me to my oncology appointment.

We were devastated when the specialist said I had neuroendocrine carcinoma, which was rare in the cervical area. He said it was aggressive, and we were looking at about a year or 18 months for me to live, even with treatment.

I lost a significant amount of weight during my treatment

The boys watched as I went for chemotherapy and lost my hair. It was hard explaining the situation to them, especially Ezra. We read some books about sickness and bereavement to help him understand.

The four of us moved in with Mom and Dad because it was easier that way. I had chemotherapy, immunotherapy, and radiation for nine months straight. It was defeating and exhausting. I went from being an independent mom running around all over the place to being incredibly weak. At 5ft 8in tall, I dropped to 115 pounds.

I expect not to be around for the holidays

Then things looked up for a while. I seemed to be responding well — until I felt a constant, dull pain, along with occasional stabbing pains in one of my kidneys in June this year. The cancer had spread and was now stage 5. My oncologist told me that I probably had four-and-a-half months to live.

I’m preparing not to celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas this year.

I’m now in hospice care, but I am trying my best to be present and to enjoy every moment of the time I have left. My priority is my family, which has been supportive throughout.

In my mid-20s, I remember having a weird discussion with my friends about how we’d want the arrangements to be if we’d been diagnosed with a terminal disease. It was just one of those random conversations.

“I hate funerals because they’re just so miserable,” I said. “Everyone is standing around talking about what they should have said to the person before they died.”

I said that, if I knew I was dying, I’d want to throw a big party and invite my family and friends. Of course, back in the day, I never once imagined that I’d be in that exact position.

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I wanted people to remember me as I was and not frail

I started planning my living funeral — also known as a celebration of life — almost as soon as I received the last prognosis. I wanted to time it so that it would be one of my last memories.

Meanwhile, I wanted the people I loved to remember me as I was, before I became too frail to say a proper, lucid goodbye.

I booked a venue for the evening of Saturday, September 20, 2025, and invited 40 of my closest family and friends. I asked them to prepare handwritten letters for me.

My goal was to keep it as intimate as possible. My sons were the only children. I wanted them to be in a room full of loving people who’d reassure them that they were not going to be alone after I was gone.

It was a safe setting for them to hear each person reminisce about their mom and the adventures we’d shared when I was younger.

I also wanted to thank every guest for being part of my life, whether they were friends from my wild teenage years or young adulthood, the parents I met during motherhood, or the family who took such good care of me.

On the night itself, everybody wore elegant outfits like mine. I had my hair and makeup done because I wanted to look my best. Momento, a nonprofit that captures meaningful images of terminally ill individuals and their families, handled the photography.

I gave a speech at the end about love

My older brother opened with a toast. Then Ethan read out his letter. I hadn’t been expecting him to speak, and it was a lovely surprise. He said how amazing I was and how lucky he was to have me as his mom.

My best friend later spoke about our bond, which has lasted more than 20 years. A friend who had two daughters said he hoped they would be as strong and brave as I am one day. Some letters were sprinkled with laughter. People made jokes about my (many) unrequited crushes in middle and high school.

I gave my speech at the end. “As I think about my death, and the life I have lived, I keep coming back to love,” I said. “The pleasure of having known love and given love is what really matters on this earth.

“I truly feel content, because I have felt love and I continue to feel love every moment of every day, thanks to all of you in this very room.”

There was so much emotion and crying, not least by me. But there was also happiness. At the beginning, I kept having my makeup touched up because of the tears, but after a while, I didn’t care.

Two weeks on, I reflect on that night and feel more serene. It brought me peace and a little bit of closure about what’s to come.

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