Post-diagnosis bardo

I needed a word for that slice of time between diagnosis and death, a waiting room kind of word,  a word that can be explicit, a word, preferably in French, that lies between "c'est la vie" (pre-diagnosis) and "c'est la mort" (when the diagnosis takes effect).  

A diagnosis is when an official bone-pointer (like an oncologist) points the bone at you, psychosocially.  

Couldn't find a French word for this psychosocial waiting room. 

I remembered the word "bardo" from Tibetan Buddhism, all the stages that people supposedly go through before rebirth, if you believe in that kind of thing.
(Which I don't. Please spare me having to come back for any reason. I've been preparing my whole life to have no unfinished business with existence.) 

Anyway, the word "bardo" surfaced in my brain as I pictured myself sitting in an existential waiting room. Apparently, it can "be interpreted as any transitional experience, any state that lies between two other states." So says Wikipedia.
That is convenient. Hopefully it's not cultural appropriation to use this word. Hopefully Tibet is cool with this interpretation. 

If the two states at each end of existence are both non-existence, then existence itself is a bardo. Right? Maybe nonexistence is the usual state of affairs. I know I won't really mind going back to stardust, the way I was before I was born.  

I do not want mess, or fuss, or memorial, or funeral, or "celebration of life," that way too exuberant term for something so natural and final. I want nothing. Just a way out that doesn't hurt and that I can sort of manage. Loss of dignity is my greatest... I won't call it "fear," I would call it, that possibility about which I feel most aversive. 

When I was at the appointment with the oncologist last week, I brought up the topic of MAiD, and he seemed to recoil. Too soon maybe? I pointed out that I felt reassured by the thought. He wasn't listening. He was doing was felt to me like a schtick about how I could live "for years" with the meds he wanted to prescribe me.  At the moment I am staving off the urge to inform myself about them,  Ribociclib, Zoledronic acid, Anastrozole. 

So far I've just glanced over the handouts, mere toe-dipping. With Ribociclib I would have to give up drinking grapefruit juice, which I love. 
Zoledronic acid has osteoporosis as a side effect. I do not want or need the worry that my bones, spinal bones, any bones, could collapse while I'm still alive. 
Anastrozole is for breast cancer that is making the body make estrogen outside the ovaries. As in, post-menopausal production of estrogen, which at age 75 is me for sure.  The handout says it's well tolerated, serious side effects are rare, but at the appointment he said I could end up going through menopause a second time, and honestly, once through that particular bardo is enough for me. 
I got through it in the late 1980s, early 90s, but only with a solid intense round of Jungian therapy with a therapist who never flinched. Why? Because I couldn't stop crying and it was embarrassing and it went on for months. I did not medicalize menopause at the time. I never took hormone replacement or supplements or anything. I squirted myself with cool water to cool down hot flashes. I simply waited in the bardo of it, with a therapist who wanted to know all about my dreams, until things changed by themselves and I had a postmenopausal life I could enjoy again. 

I think I'll find out time lines. I mean, what's the timeline for the post-diagnosis bardo with the meds? What is the timeline without them? Because right now I still feel just fine. 

I really do not have any pressing reason to continue existing. I have no descendants. I've done my best and worst in these 75 years. I'm not beholden to anyone for anything much. I'm not anti-social, I would describe myself more as a-social in this town. I have no pressing financial worries or obligations. I'm retired with no lofty projects to complete. I've been enjoying the life of a hermit, actually, since covid came along and pandemic restrictions knocked me off my stride in 2020. 

Furthermore I do not want or need psychosocial, psycho-spheric pressure of any kind on me. I have been building my own autonomy, my own sovereignty, all my life, and it's my life, dammit, cancer or no cancer. I think I have every right to be comfortable and not inconvenienced in whatever might be left of it.