I’ll never go so far to call cancer a gift. It’s a really terrible disease. It’s taken the lives of so many of my fellow friends in the oncology unit. But like any life-interrupted moment, there are silver linings.
There’s a photograph of me in the transplant unit where I have a vomit bucket under one arm, I have my laptop on my knees, and I’m crying, not because, you know, I’m about to have a bone marrow transplant, but because I’ve missed a deadline!
The thought of going through a bone marrow transplant, which in my case called for a life-threatening dose of chemotherapy followed by a total replacement of my body’s bone marrow, was scary enough. But then I learned that finding a donor can be the scariest part of all.
The hero’s journey is, you know, one of the oldest story arcs that we have. And it’s one, I think, that’s especially projected onto cancer patients.
The steep price tag of cancer treatment needs to continue to be a part of the national conversation, not just the patient-doctor one.
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.
Where cancer is concerned, it’s safe to say there’s no such thing as good timing.
Just a few years ago, at the age of 22, I learned I had an aggressive form of leukemia. I needed intensive chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant to save my life. Back then, my doctors told me that I had a 35 percent chance of surviving my transplant.
Isolated in the oncology ward, I began to think about my dream to become a writer.
My own cancer experience has taught me that the most comforting words from friends have often been both the simplest and the most honest.
If you have a chronic illness in America, there’s a good chance you also hold a degree in Health Insurance 101, whether you want to or not.
Today, at age 24, when my peers are dating, marrying and having children of their own, my cancer treatments are causing internal and external changes in my body that leave me feeling confused, vulnerable, frustrated – and verifiably unsexy.
I think often when we talk about things like cancer, the kind of final act at the end of the story comes with a cure. But we don’t talk a lot about what happens after. And it took me a while to even acknowledge to myself how much I was struggling.
Being in your twenties and trying to figure out who you are and what you want to do in life – with or without cancer – is a scary endeavor on its own.
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