They said it was a tumor.

One of those cancers with the long swooping names, packed tight with all the syllables you learned to say in grammar school. But boiled down the word was simple and yet somehow harder to say than most: cancer

People began watching the clock. They began trying their hardest to treasure the moments or hoard them in corners where no would could try to suck them away. They filled conversations over coffee with things like, “No, not him. He’s a fighter. He’ll get better.”

And then the doctors said it and they all sucked in, bit down, and gulped. Six to twelve months. And his keys would be in the ignition no more. And they’d light candles they never wanted to light. And cry because they never wanted to weep. And say goodbye to a someone who they only wished would get a rewrite of his story. “More hello’s, please. We just need one last hello.”

And then he was gone.

And the world got quiet. And they lit candles. And they wept. And they somehow learned to say goodbye. They learned the word but it never got any easier. And the Happily Ever After never showed that day or the next.

When they lost a love to cancer, no one rode off into the sunset. No one waved from their palace. No one danced in the moonlight in a little longer. They all just got quiet. And they forgot the words to their songs. And they stopped trying for a little while because no one really felt like singing.

Not a soul, not a shred, sighed a deep breath and found the Happily or the Ever or the After.

We’ve learned to hold tight to something that was never given to us– A Happily Ever After. We hold it tight to our chest as if it is a guarantee as we devour stories that end well. Stories that tie up neat and pretty with a big white bow. But stories don’t usually resolve. And characters we love cannot always stay. And there is an underlying hymn of heartbreak that follows each of us throughout this world–not because life is bad or cruel or something to always cry and moan about, but because this lifetime hurts. Over & over again, it hurts to watch the fleshy, broken messes of We love and lose and love and fight and love and break and love and let go.

It’s the After. That is where we all drag out fingers along the dotted lines of life and point to when we find ourselves missing someone so deeply.

After they were gone. After they left. After. After. After.

That’s the part of the story we forget to focus on. The After is never the thing we think about when our jeans don’t fit and there is gossip sitting ripe on the screen of the iPhone and we’re late for an appointment and we are trying, trying so damn hard, to just be someone who is “known” in this world. We never think, in all the clutter of waiting for life to grow sane and livable, that we should have already begun to crane our eyes towards the After.

A legacy. A legacy.

It’s time to find out if you have one. If it is already in the building stages. If other people have the bricks. If you’ve passed them out in just the right capacity.

If you have one, it will mean you thought to live your life with someone else in mind. You’ll be the warm spot in the memory of another. People will carry you in a way that means so much more than the carrying you ever thought to do of your own stories, and your own accomplishments. Yes, a legacy will mean you thought to make this place better as you came on down to this dirt and water and thought to make it home for a little while.

A legacy gets passed. To children. To friends. To lovers. To people you will never even know in this lifetime. And it does not begin when your eyes shut or your fingers stop playing on the piano at night. And maybe it’s time we asked, will mine be full and bursting with goodness? Will it be just the thing she needs to crawl out of the bigger black holes when I am no longer here to stretch out my hand and say, “hold tight.”

When I write this way, I already begin missing things. Like I am going somewhere. Like it is ending sooner than I hope. Is that crazy to even admit?

I begin missing the trees. I begin missing the kettle on the stove, hissing as I enter the house with the light always on in the foyer. But I try to remember, as hard as it can be, to always think like this. To think about the After.

Like tomorrow someone might not have you and you will want to know that you built them up with every little thing you always wanted for them. Dignity. Respect. Joy. Amazement. The ability to stop and realise how good we’ve got it right now.

And this thing? This thing we keep waiting for to start? When we are skinnier. When we are happier. When this test is over. When this week ends. It’s all we get. And it is rushing through our fingertips right now. And sooner, sooner, there could be an After. I cannot tell you when. I cannot tell you when.

And so, while the rest of the world goes on writing symphonies about themselves and trying so desperately to just leave something behind when they go– a company, an empire, a name of sorts– you’ve got a chance to let someone know you came here for them. And you got all sorts of determined to make this story better for them. And this life better for them. And any bit you could, you tried to make it better so that they would get to dance in the Aftermath of your legacy.

After your laughter. After your words that could fill a room like the aroma of cinnamon at Christmastime. After you dug your toes deep in the planet and tried to make it the least bit better off than when you first came.

After, After, After. Enough of a focus on that and you’ll never need utter these words again: will you still hold me when I am gone? Have I given you enough to hold just yet?

I feel your sorrow chasing tommorow

There is no distance in your absence

If you call the monster he will appear

Like I disappear, blackout

There is resistence behind enemy lines

There goes the hatred bursting through the fabric

If you call the monster he will appear

Like I disappear, blackout

You are here

You are here

You are here

One day

You will see

That it all

Has finally come together.

What you have

Always wished for

Has finally come to be.

You will look back

And laugh at what has passed

And you will ask yourself,

"How did I get through all of that?"

Never let go of hope.

Never quit dreaming.

And

Never let love

Depart from your life. 

I make it a priority to tell one ugly story a month.

One Hideously, Ugly, Unflattering Story Every Thirty Days.

You can guarantee that as the 30th prances closer to the front of my calendar I am clearing my throat and looking for someone to sit beside me with a cup of tea between their hands, waiting to hear my Ugly Tale.

Throughout the years I have learned that it is not hard to find an Ugly Tale. Lord knows I have a bookshelf full of Ugly Tales, disorganised and restless, sitting on some handmade shelf within my soul. No, finding an Ugly Tale is not difficult but having the courage to tell one is another matter completely.

I don’t ever attempt to dictate or be right when I write but for the first time in ever I am going to come out and say something I believe with every fiber of my being: We don’t tell enough Ugly Stories. We don’t hold them up to the light nearly enough. We rarely find the time to stop and talk about Tragedy and Hardships unless we know a new nonfiction claiming to tell a sad story as if it were the only one has just hit the Best Sellers List.

But I don’t believe we carve out enough time to get Ugly with one another. To tell one another about the times we fell flat on our face or the very first time we realised our heart really did have seams that could rip. Rip Quite Easily. Perhaps we forgot to cover that base in kindergarten as we all held up our valiant pieces of plastic for the first time and checked out Heroic Stories from the Local Library. Someone should have told us then that it is o.k. to speak out loud the things that hurt us most or to acknowledge Broken Stories. That we can have Favourite Things and then Not So Favourite Things that we actually admit to ourselves and others.

Some part of life taught us at a very young age that we should hide away the ugliness, the not-so-pretty stories, as we vow to never grace those spots again with a flashlight or a word.

Fragile relationships. Bitter feelings. Hardships. Resentment. Leftover pieces. Remains of strength. Confusion. Doubt.

You just be strong, buttercup. Hold your head up and get over it. You go ahead and tuck that experience deep into some abandoned compartment of your heart . And we will never talk of it again.

That is how Ugly Stories go untold. Precious Ugly Stories that taught us everything we know about being human beings and yet we reject them because they make our throats dry and our palms sweat as we attempt to stutter out, “Once Upon a Time.”

Here is what I know:  That we, the crazy messes of skin that we are, have the marrow of storytellers within us.

Something in our DNA makes us cry out for stories. Again and Again and Again. And not just Pretty Stories but Ugly Stories as well. Those are the Gold that Jerk Tears from our Eyelids and Keep Us Pushing Onward. Relentless. Capable. Invincible.

And so I have become quite comfortable with sharing Ugly Stories as if they were animal crackers at  snack time.

Times where I felt pitiful. Or I fell flat on my face. Or I gave up, throwing my hands up and surrendering to a God that has kissed my skinned knees since childhood.

I find it is the only way to clear out cobwebs of the soul. To dump out the clutter from the leather satchel with the one thousand compartments that I refer to as my heart sometimes.

For there are whole parts of my life that I wish I could just sweep out into the open with a massive broom but I haven’t gotten that far yet. Right now I have a toothbrush and I am down on hands and knees scrubbing. Scrubbing Hard. Telling One Ugly Story Every Thirty Days.

Some might call it “moving forward,” others, “starting over.” I call it “carrying less this time around.” Learning to coat all that is Hard and Hard to Admit in my life with a thick stew of Love & Storytelling.

Forgiving myself for the messes I have made. Releasing the power from those Hard To Tell Stories by giving them a voice. A Narrator. A Strong Narrator. Taking them back, out of the night, with the help of a flashlight I find myself clicking on for the very first time.

So come find me and I’ll share an Ugly Story with you.

The doctor is about to come back to the room. No, of course it’s not good news, you should know this by now. Yes, it’s cancer. I’m sorry, but I know that doesn’t matter. You’re twenty, it’s 2 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, and nothing really matters. Instead of algebra homework and Facebook conversations, you’ve spent the morning going through blood tests and x-rays, with no idea why everyone’s being so dramatic about a little fatigue and a high fever. I’m so sorry.

I want you to know, you’re going to ask questions. Because you’re smart and you’ve never felt so stupid. Because cancer sucks, but aside from that, you don’t know the first thing about it. But you know something’s wrong.

I want you to know, your mind will wander. Let it. You’re about to move into a hospital with four stark white walls, a bed, a TV set straight out of the ‘90s, and a slew of machines and monitors that will hum and beep endlessly through the night. You’re going to wonder “why you?” and then you’ll see the 7-year-old boy in the room next to you, with a brazenly bald head and a smile you can’t even fathom and you’ll wonder, “Why him?” You’ll watch him toy with G.I. Joe action figures and wake up early to catch all the Saturday morning cartoons and you’ll wonder why. You’ll understand what he doesn’t: you know something’s wrong. And then you’ll feel envy, in that you wish you didn’t understand, in that you wish this had happened thirteen years back.

But there’s something you should know: you don’t understand. And you don’t need to. There is no God, I know. But there are doctors. There are nurses. There’s your family, and your friends. And there’s a small shot in hell you might actually pull through this thing.

And then you’ll have a change of heart. At some point, pity will seem pointless. You’ve had enough of sorrow in visitors’ faces, of Edible Arrangements and helium balloons. When acquaintances  catch wind of your story and send you one hundred hand-written letters of overwhelming support and sympathy, don’t feel guilty for resenting them. You’ll cherish them in time, and when you’re older, you’ll cherish them still. Maria, I hope you’re still pursuing fashion. Brad, I hope you make the AFL. And Taylor, Merry Christmas to you too.

Life is confusing. We both know this, but what you don’t know yet is that it’s perfectly okay. Because life will always be confusing. After all, it’s not about searching for answers; it’s about searching for questions. And you’re not alone. Find comfort in that.

In the face of adversity, face change. You’ll think about reinventing yourself. Consider a tattoo, perhaps on your middle finger, the word “cancer.” You’ll think about your future, and tell yourself you’re never having kids. “They’re annoying,” you’ll tell people, when in your heart of hearts you’ll know you could never watch a child, your child no less, go through this hell. Besides, they are really annoying. You’ll scoff at the office jobs you promise yourself never to get lost in: a world of 9 to 5 routines, of suits and schedules you never want to partake in. You’ll find something you love, someone you love. You’ll take trips to the Mexican Riviera in the middle of October, because you can. You’ll wake up in beds you don’t remember falling asleep in, and you’ll cook Christmas dinner with your best friend instead of your relatives. You hear that? That’s “responsibility” calling, and you’re running from it. Go. Run fast, and run far. In those moments when you feel alone, when you feel like nobody, feel like anybody you want to.

See the light. There is one, trust me, and you’ll see it. Not right away, but eventually. After months of chemotherapy, radio, of high-fevers and antibiotics, of daily blood tests and constant monitoring, there will be a light. And it will power you forward. All of a sudden, it won’t be a “maybe” anymore, but a “yes.” Yes, you did it. You’re winning all the battles, and soon, you’ll win the war. And then you’ll come to a crossroad, as hard as that is to believe. You’re proud, and justifiably so. Feel that pride, and then feel pain. Feel an unnerving sense of pain that, once again, you can’t understand. Feel worry, feel scared, and feel uncertain all over again.

All of a sudden, the light’s approaching too fast, and you’re not ready. You’re not ready for the real world. You’ve found a bizarre sense of comfort in the bubble of the hospital. Your mother never left your side, for days she slept on an air mattress in the corner of your hospital room and stood by you through the darkest of darks. The doctors never left your side; the nurses were always there.

Resent the light. Wish it wasn’t coming. Wish there was another cycle of chemotherapy, another infection, another recovery. Wish there was another season of America’s Next Top Model to watch with your favourite nurse. Sure, she’s twenty-six and married, but that’s what has become your notion of a friend right now, and friendship is something you’re in no place to lose. But that’s okay. Realise, understand, acknowledge that when you felt like you lost your life, you didn’t at all. You gained life, and once again you’re afraid of losing it all.

Don’t let it go. You don’t have to, and you won’t. What you’ve yet to realise is that even when they unplug your IV, when they take your name off the door to room #9 on the north wing of the fourth floor of the Hutch Hospital of Eastern Washington, when the doctor finally says, “Go home. You’re done, it’s done, we’re done,” that she’s lying. It’s never done. You may not have cancer anymore, but you’re still a cancer patient. Realise you never made it to the light, no matter how bright it became. Realise that whenever you want, wherever you want, you’re whoever you want to be, with or without a cancer diagnosis. Never let that go. 

When I think about a bone marrow biopsy, I often imagine a microscope. I imagine it sitting on the desk of an empty hospital lab. A doctor is looking into the eyepiece and not saying anything. What does he see in there?

I’ve been thinking a lot about the number 100 since my bone marrow transplant in July. The date had been looming since the first days after I had woken, though it also felt like it would never come. In medical terms, the 100 day mark is an examination day. It’s the first major benchmark for evaluating a patient’s recovery from a transplant. The doctors administer a biopsy, an invasive procedure to extract bone marrow from a bone in my hip, to determine whether the disease has returned. The doctors are also looking for any sign that the “foreign” agents in my body — the donor stem cells, mistakenly attacking my body. This condition is called Graft Versus Host disease (GVHD).  My worry right now is about what I can’t see — the stuff under the microscope.

In some ways, 100 days is an arbitrary date — even my doctors might concede that. It could be 80 days or 175. Recovery from bone marrow transplants, as I’ve learned from doctors and fellow cancer patients, is rarely predictable. I have a 28-year-old friend who says she “sailed through” the first 100 days after transplant without major issue, only to reveal that her hardest days came in the second 100 days. Maybe that’s the reason, as another friend and transplant patient said recently, that there aren’t a lot of books titled, “How to Recover From a Bone Marrow Transplant.” It’s one of the most advanced medical procedures that doctors do — and it seems as though each patient’s journey is likewise a step into unknown territory.

Maybe more than anything else, the 100 day mark is symbolic. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. My family threw me a party last Saturday, on Day +101. We had cake — the number 100 frosted across the top — and everyone stumbled through a variation of the “Happy Birthday” song that we had to make up on the spot. It was the first time I’d seen my family together since my transplant.

Two days after the party, on Monday, I started a new round of chemotherapy. The doctors want to prevent any cancerous cells from exacerbating. That makes sense, but it’s hard to think about recovery from my transplant when I am trying to prepare for another year of chemo.

The 100 day party may be over but I’m trying to find a moment to take stock of the progress I’ve made since my transplant.

Rare, rare bird

Abide with me.

Don't give yourself

Too easily.

Stand your ground

For all to see.

Rare, rare bird

Abide with me.

Beautiful lamb

Don't turn away.

Just say the word

Without delay.

And shine your light

For all to see.

A rare, rare bird

You are to me.

Rare, rare bird

Abide with me.

Beautiful lamb

Don't walk away.

Just say the word

Without delay.

Take my hand

'Cause I'm lost you see.

A rare, rare bird

You are to me.

Rare, rare bird

Abide with me.

Guilt, like cancer, is a greedy guest feasting on its host. It is nondiscriminatory. We have all felt it, wondered what it was doing there, willed it to go away.

I’m aware that feeling guilty about having cancer is more than a little irrational. But when it comes to cancer, guilt is a mercurial, equal-opportunity burden that affects both patients and caretakers.

In the outpouring of love I’ve gotten since I began writing about my disease, guilt has never been too far away. Intermixed in the spectacular and candid messages of support, I’ve also received dozens of apologies from friends, classmates, and acquaintances who feel guilty for not being in touch or not realising what I have been going through. Some people feel guilty just for being healthy when I am sick. The topic of guilt came up during a support group meeting for young adults with cancer. I was comforted to hear that everyone in the room felt some form of guilt related to their cancer. I certainly had. From the day I received my diagnosis, guilt has been a steady and quiet companion on my journey.

Sometimes, guilt is a self-inflicted wound. Although I know I shouldn’t, I feel guilty about being a burden on others, taking up too much “space” with my problems and causing pain to those I love. How could I not? I trust that others with cancer know what I mean.

Not long after my diagnosis, I wrote in my notes about my own feelings of guilt.

I feel guilty when I start feeling sick or get a fever. I want to apologise, for I know I will soon make the life of my loved ones hell. My mother will have to drive for hours in the middle of the night to take me to the hospital. Family will have to take sick days from work. After long days at the office, Frey will spend night after night sleeping between the sheets beside me. My father will “hold down the fort” at home (this translates to lonely nights spent worrying by himself and feeling very far away from my hospital). My brother, typical of most 20-something “bros,” doesn’t talk much about his feelings. He has trouble sleeping. Often, when I wake up from nightmares, I hear him tossing and turning in his room next door.

At times, I have blamed myself for lifestyle choices that might have led to my cancer. During my many travels, might I have been exposed to some kind of environmental toxin? If it weren’t for all those late nights during uni spent studying and going to parties, would I still have fallen sick? Did my vegetarian phase at age 8 strip me of important nutrients and compromise my immune system? Too much junk food? Were my jeans too tight?

The belief that cancer happens for a reason can be an attractive line of thinking — where there’s an effect, there must be a cause. This is what a logical mind tells us, but it’s usually untrue. Even when a patient is found to have lung cancer after decades of smoking, is cancer still the patient’s “fault”? Even if there is a correlation to the choices a person makes in life, cancer is always deeply unfair.

Guilt takes other forms for patients, like feeling shame for the envy we feel about those who are in good health; feeling guilty about the disproportionate amount of attention we receive, and even guilt about surviving cancer when so many others have not.

I’ve learned that guilt is made less powerful when you confront it — writing about it, talking about it, bringing my fears and thoughts to the fore, out into the open. For me, the cure for guilt, to the extent that there is one, has been sunlight.

People are always giving advice to cancer patients. Whether it is nutritional advice or doctor recommendations or tips on how to quell the nausea that accompanies chemotherapy or radiotherapy, just as soon as people hear you are sick they usually want to find a way to help. Most of the advice is welcome and encouraging, though in some cases you’re just not in the mood to hear what someone has learned because you’re too busy treading water.

That’s one reason I hesitate to lend any advice at all. I’m only 22. I’ve had cancer for 27 months now. It feels like forever to me, but it’s a short period of time compared with people I know who are going on 5 or 7 or 10 years living with cancer. But I’ve received some heartfelt advice and solidarity along the way from fellow cancer patients, doctors, friends – even from strangers – and it has meant a lot to me. Now I want to share what I’ve learned along the way.

Here are six strategies that have helped me to cope with cancer.

Find Your Community

At first, I bristled at the idea of a cancer community. It was enough to have cancer; did I also have to share my experience with a group of strangers? It felt like extra homework. I hesitated for several months before going to my first cancer support group meeting. It was overwhelming to imagine hearing a dozen other stories as bad as, or worse than, mine.

But something surprising happened. I started going to a young adult cancer support group. For the first time since my diagnosis, I became aware of the fact that I was not alone in my fears and anxieties. Instead of feeling isolated in my experience with cancer, I began to realise there was an amazing community of people out there who were going through the same thing and could help me make sense of what was happening because they had been there themselves. Rather than feeling overwhelmed by the stories of the other cancer patients, I felt empowered and inspired by their strength and bravery.

I’ve also found a surprisingly vibrant cancer network in virtual space — on Twitter, Facebook and elsewhere. But in my experience, nothing can replace face-to-face interaction – even if no words are exchanged – with someone else who understands what you’re going through. Two of my closest friends are people around my age whom I met at the hospital. We don’t talk about cancer all the time. But knowing we can go there if we need to is invaluable.

Eliminate Clutter

Cancer feels messy inside and out, whether it’s the disease itself, invading my body, or the material clutter that comes with disease: heaps of laundry piling up, stacks of unopened bills, prescription medication crowding the bedside table, unanswered phone calls and e-mails, and more. I’ve found it helpful to try to control the chaos in small ways. 

I’ve gotten rid of unnecessary clutter in my room. I do regular mini-spring cleanings. What do I need? What can I put away in storage? It makes me feel better, even when cleaning tires me out. The way my surroundings look and feel has a big effect on my mind-set, especially when I am spending a lot of time resting in bed. I like to feel light.

Prioritise Your Relationships

Cancer also forced me to declutter my social life. When I found out I had cancer, I was a still at university. I had dozens of friends and acquaintances who formed a frenzied around-the-clock social network, talking and texting all day, every day. I was tied to my phone like any other 20-year-old.

After my diagnosis, I tried to keep up my old ways, but there was less time. And I had much less energy. At first I felt guilty about not being able to maintain the same frequency of communication with my friends. But having cancer forced me to adopt a simpler schedule.

Be Kind to Yourself

Instead of feeling mad at my body for failing me, I’m trying to give myself permission to take it easy. Easier said than done — I almost didn’t include this point because I’m still struggling with being kind to myself. I can’t help but feel frustrated with myself when my body is overly tired, or when my mind is fuzzy. (They call it “chemo brain.”) Sometimes I beat myself up over sleeping late into the afternoon. Or when I can’t eat more than a few bites of any meal. Or when my muscles are too weak to pick up the kettle on the counter. It’s a daily struggle not to view these setbacks as failures or weakness. But I’m trying not to punish myself for the things I can’t change. In the time we should be the easiest on ourselves, I’ve found that we can often be the most judgmental and harsh.

Do Something for Someone Else

The experience of being sick for an extended time means that you become the center of attention. Someone has to be taking care of you, people are always worried about you, and as the patient you spend a lot of time focusing on, well, you. That’s a lot of yous. Cancer confers a certain kind of myopia. You’re always thinking about your own health above all else. That doesn’t leave a lot of time to think about other people. For the first time since my diagnosis, I’ve begun to send letters and care packages to other cancer patients and friends of mine going through a difficult time. By reaching out, I’m paying it forward for all the help and care I have received. I have found that small acts of gratitude or connectedness to other people who are suffering rescues me from my own self-pity and makes me feel like I’m capable of helping, and not just of being helped.

Set Goals Unrelated to Cancer

From the earliest days of my diagnosis, one of the casualties of cancer was the feeling that I had to shelve my dreams and goals. These paused plans — dreams, interrupted — weighed on me every day. I was constantly thinking of everything I could be doing – everything but lying in a hospital bed or sitting in an infusion suite. Right before I got sick, I was working on my dreams. But with my diagnosis came radio and new plans. It was devastating to miss this opportunity.

But I decided that I didn’t want to let cancer put my life entirely on hold. It had always been my goal to be a writer of some kind. So now I’m going after that goal again. This time, however, I’m trying to write about a different kind of landscape.

As a cancer patient, I think a lot about how we talk about illness — or more often, how we talk around it. Even the word “cancer” is ugly, scary, burdensome — a roadblock for a conversation before it even starts. Who wants to go there? Much of the time, I’d rather not bring it up if I don’t have to — and I’m the one with the disease!

When the topic is a life-threatening disease, the instinct — for both the patient and non-patient — is often to freeze, and try to come up with a positive spin.

“I’m trying to think positive!” I’ll tell a friend, after listing the symptoms I’m having.

“I’m staying strong!” I’ll write in a text message.

“It’s tough, but I can do this,” I’ll say when I’m having an especially hard day.

No one coached me to say these phrases. So where did they come from? In the middle of chemotherapy, when I’m feeling my worst, why do I feel the need to inject these little nuggets of positivity into conversation?

Our culture is steeped in positive thinking — from the self-help mega-industry to uni courses in positive psychology to the enduring pull of our dreams. There is no “dislike” button on Facebook. Nobody wants to be a downer.

But I don’t think it’s all cultural. When it comes to disease, I think the “positivity spin zone” is a force of nature. First, we want to protect the people we love. Cancer makes people think about mortality. It scares your friends and family. And many cancer patients, consciously or otherwise, try to buffer bad news with a dose of positivity. Putting a positive twist on how things are going is a way to convey hope. We want to be strong, to put on a brave face for our loved ones. Positivity is a signal that everything is going to be all right, even if no one knows that for sure.

The second reason, I’ve come to realise, is to protect ourselves. There’s no denying that cancer is a gloomy subject. We repeat positive phrases to ourselves as a sort of mantra. And while positive thinking alone can’t cure cancer, attitude is critical to getting through the process and growing as a person. We voice positivity as a show of strength in the face of the unknown. It’s a daily note to self: I’m going to beat this.

But while I have learned a lot since my diagnosis — and I am trying to be hopeful for the future — living with cancer is also just really, really hard. We don’t always talk about those times. We self-censor many parts of the journey. And when we do speak about it, we often find ourselves framing any negative thoughts in a more positive way.

At what point is positivity a form of denial? Does positivity at all costs have a cost? I’m not a negative person, and I’m certainly not trying to set up a school for negative thinking, but today I’m giving myself permission to step out of the spin zone of positivity — to stare down fear, anxiety and dread without the guilt that I might be giving up or not fighting hard enough.

This reality isn’t positive or negative. It’s just another day in my journey as a cancer patient.

We are forced to survive reality by harnessing our thoughts, feelings and emotions as they quietly travel along on their own trajectories. We think our realities are different to the world surrounding us and thus it becomes a struggle of who we are; until; we find someone who has a mutual understanding that our personal reality is okay and they choose to spend their reality in ours. 

We call this a love story.