I am working on a new memoir related to my cancer experience. As I create, I had been sharing stories over on substack, but I have decide to close my substack blog and move my stories back over here. In addition to writing about my ongoing survivorship experiences, I will be sharing stories that are a mix of old and new – that may one day be included in my future memoir. Stories related to the memoir which are historical but written in present tense, will begin with a declaimer like this and a rough date so you know it isn’t a new report on my health.
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October 2024
I have a scan coming up next week, and everything feels like it hinges on the results. Will I live, or will I die? My brain is constantly fighting with itself, stuck between logic and fear, spiralling into worst-case—or at least bad-case—scenarios. Every little symptom sets off alarm bells. When my headache returns, or my head feels spacey, I immediately think, the cancer has spread to my brain. If my side aches, I worry about my liver. If there’s a twinge in my mid-back, I fear for my spine. The big question is always lurking: Has the cancer spread?
It’s hard to explain this constant state of fear to people who haven’t lived it. In a casual conversation this week, Jane asks me, “Do you think eating meat caused your cancer?” I pause, a little stunned by the simplicity of her question. “Uh, no,” I reply, keeping my tone as calm as I can. “I know vegans and vegetarians who also have cancer.” I can tell Jane, like so many others, is searching for something—an explanation that makes cancer feel more understandable, less random. But cancer doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t follow simple rules or offer easy answers.
Jane isn’t done. She follows up with, “If I had cancer, I wouldn’t do chemotherapy.” Her words hang in the air, and I find myself at a loss for how to respond. I’ve heard this kind of remark more often than I’d like. The problem is how generic it is. There are so many types of cancer, and not all of them are treated with chemotherapy. Even among breast cancers, treatment varies widely. The truth is, until you’ve been there, you have no idea what you would actually do.
Before my diagnosis, I thought I knew. I always believed that if I ever got cancer, I’d want the tumour removed immediately. But when the time came, surgery was the last thing I wanted. I delayed it as long as I could because I needed time to process. You can’t prepare for something like this—you don’t know how you’ll respond until you’re living it.
Now, as I wait for the scan, that same uncertainty looms over me. I’m a planner by nature, and my mind is already mapping out what I’ll do if the worst happens, if the scan shows the cancer has spread. I wonder what my treatment options will be. I question whether I’ll go back to work. My brain keeps spinning, planning for endless possibilities, because that’s how I cope with the unknown.
The fear is legitimate. I’m experiencing symptoms that could very well mean the cancer has spread, and that’s why we’re doing the scan. But letting the fear control me isn’t productive. The scan is booked. I have a follow-up call with my oncologist scheduled. There’s nothing more I can do right now, and I remind myself of that every time my mind drifts toward the dark, uncertain path ahead.
For now, I wait.
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