Hey Cancer, you’re well aware of how terrible you are, but let me remind you anyway.
I’m having a nostalgic moment. It’s a good one. I recall a lively night filled with laughter, dancing, and far too much enjoyment for parents in their 30s. My partner, Alex, and I met friends for dinner, and one thing led to another—we found ourselves dancing long past the typical bedtime for parents of three. There were plenty of inappropriate jokes shared and lots of reminiscing about life before kids. I even remember someone laughing so hard that she nearly lost control, but she didn’t want to leave.
I cherish that joy-filled night when the laughter was so intense it hurt, and those laugh lines were earned in full. We were living life without a care in the world. Back then, we didn’t even know your name.
Recently, I walked into that same bar to grab some sushi takeout, but instead of food, I walked out with memories so thick they almost suffocated me. I could taste the sweetness of those blue cocktails we enjoyed that night. Looking around at the patrons now—normal people—I remember the days we were just like them, enjoying good food and sharing laughs.
As I sat there waiting for my crab rangoon, it hit me hard: we’re not those people anymore, and we likely never will be again. Almost two years ago, a cruel intruder named Cancer disrupted our lives.
Now we are enveloped in sadness, anger, and often despair. Our days are filled with hospital visits and chemotherapy treatments. Feeding tubes and a mountain of medications have replaced our once cherished family dinners—Alex’s favorite, a juicy steak with mashed potatoes and a drink, feels like a distant memory. Conversations between us are few and often punctuated by tears. The concept of fun has been buried beneath the weight of your arrival.
My children were blissfully unaware of your existence. I despise you for forcing me to explain your reality to them. They feel the heaviness in our home—the fear and uncertainty. Each evening, I find myself telling them that “Daddy doesn’t want to be sick” or “Daddy wishes he could play with you.” It breaks my heart to hear one of our little ones wish for her “old daddy” back.
I’m frustrated that I lack the strength to tell them everything they need to know just yet. But I know you’ll push me to do that soon enough.
Cancer, you’ve drained every last tear from me. The sadness has morphed into rage. I’m furious about all you’ve stolen from us—our laughter, our happiness, our precious time with our children. Promises of family vacations, camping adventures, and father-daughter dances now hang in a cloud of uncertainty.
And let’s not even start on the intimacy you’ve taken from us. (Mom, avert your eyes.) I may not be the best cook or housekeeper, but I excelled in our intimate life. Sure, we had our spats over trivial things (what newlywed doesn’t?), but our love was vibrant.
The other day, I saw an elderly couple walking hand-in-hand, and it ignited a wave of anger. You’ve robbed us of that future together. Doctors have told us the odds are against us living out our golden years together. We used to joke about growing old and how I’d still be late to everything, including my own funeral. He promised, “Don’t worry, I’ll get you there on time.”
He used to have such a witty sense of humor, but you’ve taken that too, Cancer. I’m angry that the nurses and doctors only see a fragile shell of the man he once was. They don’t know the vibrant person he was before you invaded our lives. They’ll never witness his hilarious impressions or dance moves from the days when he could keep up with any beat.
I’m furious that you’re destroying a man who once swam the length of an Olympic pool in record time—his name still hangs on a plaque at the swim club, a record untouched since 1988. You’ve shattered the spirit of a guy who could operate a tractor or maneuver a speedboat around Lake Cumberland with ease.
I’m livid that those who see him now are deprived of knowing the strong man who triumphed over kidney failure and lived a robust life for over twenty years with a transplanted kidney. They won’t see the tears he sheds now, which were once tears of joy when he cradled our newborns.
Cancer, you truly are the worst.
I miss the days when we were just a typical family. I know Alex feels the same way. But despite this despair, we’ve discovered a community of support—school families who pray for us on the days when we struggle to find the words to speak to God, and neighbors who lend a hand with the kids or drop off meals. These are the people who sustain us, not the medications or treatments.
They help us fight for our children, who still find joy in riding bikes, playing soccer, and laughing at silly things. Even though you’ve taken so much from us, Cancer, I won’t allow you to steal the memories we hold dear. You can’t touch the laughter-filled nights out with friends, or the first kiss we shared. You can’t erase the moments of joy when he first held our children. I will cherish those forever.
The only thing left for you, Cancer, is my middle finger. I think that’s the least any ordinary person would give you.
This article was originally published on June 4, 2023.
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In summary, Cancer has robbed us of joy, laughter, and the normalcy we once knew, but we cling to the memories that remain and the support from our community.