A Few Totally Not Sad Things You Can Learn From My Cancer Diagnosis

 

What does cancer feel like?

Hey, that’s a great question.

I’m glad I put words in your mouth and made you ask.

I can’t speak for everyone.

But having spent 8 months receiving treatment for Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML), I can share my experience.

It might help provide perspective if you’re ever faced with the difficult challenge of supporting a loved one.

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How does it feel to be diagnosed with cancer?

A cancer diagnosis is like making plans with a girl you like. But it starts raining, so you have to change your plans from a cute picnic to a movie…

Right before you leave home, you rip your freshly ironed pants on a loose nail, and the bus to the cinema is running late…

When you finally get on the bus, you sit your butt in freshly chewed peppermint gum, and by the time you get to the cinema, the movie you want to see is sold out…

You buy tickets for a different session, but they only have seats right down the front, which always hurts your neck, and your date texts to say she’s running half an hour late…

You go to grab some extra buttery popcorn, but when you get to the front of the line to pay, you go to look in your pocket and realise you have cancer.

Disclaimer: This story isn’t literal (I don’t even know how to iron a pair of pants).

The point is cancer is an unexpected gut punch that tears the reality out of your existence.

In a nanosecond, you’d trade in your diagnosis to re-live every single terrible thing that’s ever happened to you — such is the depth of sorrow and terror you feel for what you fear is to come.

You crave your worst moments because they’re nothing compared to what your mind contemplates ahead of you.

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What does chemotherapy feel like?

Hey, that’s another great question.

You are on fire today.

Chemo isn’t great, either. It’s like the world’s worst hangover multiplied by 1000 and coated in Carolina Reaper hot sauce. Only, unlike a good hangover, chemo doesn’t leave you with any fun memories from the night before to make it worthwhile.

Sure, maybe you’ll be lucky enough to have someone ask you to get naked at some point. But that’s only because you complained of groin tenderness, and the doctors were checking for lumps.

Also, everything tastes like cardboard. Literally, everything. So the small joy of eating your favourite meal becomes a chore. Unless your favourite meal is, by some miracle, cardboard. In which case, you’re in luck.

Say goodbye to movement too, because your body has no energy. Like, zero. Nada. None. You cannot move without crippling pain or discomfort. It’s all the sloth of binge-watching an entire Netflix series with a side order of cement on your chest.

And if you like vomiting, then you’re in luck because you are going to do that. A LOT.

On the plus side, you’ll lose plenty of weight because of all that vomiting and cardboard-flavoured food, so that beach body is going to look shredded.

#HotForSummer

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How did it feel to fight cancer?

People always use the expression ‘fighting cancer’.

I tell ya, I’m not a fan of that language.

Yeah, it’s an appropriate analogy sometimes. The same way that Mike Tyson belting the shit out of an unconscious man is a “fight”.

I didn’t have many tools at my disposal to fight back. The love of my family. The compassion of medical professionals. The power of hope. Doesn’t seem like a fair fight, so I’ve never felt comfortable using that word to describe what I went through.

I didn’t fight cancer. I endured it.

Every time it came creeping silently into my room, like a dog knowing it was in the wrong for shitting on the floor, I took the brunt of its furious rage. Sometimes I took a beating while laughing with my Dad. Other times I took a beating while crying with my Mum.

Even when I was on my own, I was never really on my own. My mates were texting me. Or my nurses and doctors were checking in on me. Or my brothers were visiting me. Or I was just off in my own head, dreaming of a better time.

That’s not a fight. That’s a siege.

I wasn’t an active participant in the experience. It didn’t matter if I was filled with optimism or drowning in self-pity; nothing changed.

I never “fought” cancer because cancer doesn’t want a fight. It wants to dominate you. It sneaks in when you least expect it and looms over you like a schoolyard bully. It wants nothing more than to make you cower in fear and roll into a little ball.

And that’s not to say you can’t feel weak or devastated when you have cancer. I sure did. A whole hell of a lot. I was probably in tears more often than not.

But as long as one small piece of you can endure — even if it’s only your body while your mind soars to a safer place — you’ll never be giving in the way cancer wants you to.

So, I didn’t fight cancer. I endured the siege.

And say what you will about his track record vs. mine, but only one of us is still here writing self-indulgent articles on Medium, so who’s the real winner?

Hint: It’s you. You get to enjoy all this sparkling content. You’re the real winner.

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Why I try not to take cancer too seriously

Life is difficult, scary, and uncertain enough without me thinking of the worst-case scenario every morning.

It’s a cliche, but it’s true — you gotta laugh to keep from crying.

And this isn’t a textbook-accurate account of cancer or chemo by any means, but it is MY experience.

I got through treatment and continue navigating the psychological challenges by doing my best. Some days my version of “best” is better than others, but I’m always trying.

That’s my takeaway for you.

If the time comes that you need to be there for a loved one or even for yourself, just know that there is no roadmap to follow.

Try to be brave. Try to make a difference. Try to set an example.

Just try to do the best you can.

You’ll be amazed at how far those small efforts can go.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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