A little over a year ago, I was diagnosed with cancer. First, I was told it was Stage 1. Then, it was changed to Stage 2. During the surgery, they realized it was really Stage 3. When I heard the word “invasive” I thought it couldn’t get any worse. Then I heard “aggressive radiation and chemo, followed by brachytherapy.” Shocked? Yes. Heartbroken? A bit. Realizing what was about to happen to me? No freakin’ way!

My mind and my body are forever changed because of that one simple word – Cancer. I have surgical scars and radiation burns that will never go away. The huge T-shaped abdominal scar will always look back at me from the mirror.

My body and mind are still dealing with the repercussions from chemo, radiation, and brachytherapy. Every single day of treatment, I knew that cancer was trying to kill me, and the treatments themselves were poisoning and burning me. That’s a hard reality to wake up with each morning.

Every single day, I am sick to my stomach and weak. If I happen to have a good day, there will be at least two bad days that follow. It is always three steps forward, and two steps back.

Every single day, I wonder “Is this going to be my last day?” Every single day, I remember that today could be the day it comes back. This could be the day it spreads. This could be the day it finally kills me.” Or it could just be a sunshiny warm day. That uncertainty is hard to cope with, every single day.

Inside, I’m angry that I had to do so much of this alone, at least, physically alone. I’m angry that some friends and some family just disappeared when I needed them the most. I’m angry that no one will ever really truly understand what I’m going through. And inside, I’m so grateful to those wonderful friends who were there for me; who “showed up,” long-distance, if not physically. It is so hard to be angry and grateful at the same time. It’s like having a love-hate relationship with every breath of air you take.

I’m heartbroken that the old me is gone. I’m angry that every day I wake up, I’m “Cancer Girl,” not Jan. And I know I always will be, from this point on, and that anger is really hard to deal with on a consistent basis.

I know the odds that it will come back, and what that means. “Thirteen percent chance of being alive in 5 years” – those words resonate in my brain more often than I care to mention. I carry that burden every day.

I’m angry that I have survivor’s guilt, as I watch so many in my cancer support group announce they are NED (No Evidence of Disease) and celebrate, only to die in the arms of their family two or three months later! It is so unfair to endure months and months of painful treatments, be told you are okay now, and then within months, you’re gone! How can there be any fairness in the universe when this happens to people who fought so bravely?

Sometimes I get angry when people tell me how strong I am, because I never had any other choice than to be strong. I’m sad because I can’t plan, or even imagine, my future. Every thought of a future starts with the words “if I’m still alive…”

My life, which has mirrored my mother’s life so closely, has shown me the frailty of life. She fought, was declared free of cancer, and two year later, she died with my Dad and I holding her hands, of a Stage 4 re-occurrence. Having done and seen that, how can not know how uncertain my future is. Do I even have a future?

I watched both of my parents die from this unspeakable disease. I was with both of them in their final moments. I’m the one who gave both of them support and comfort at the end. And I wonder, will there be anyone to hold my hand when my time comes? And truly, I know there probably won’t be.

I’ve hated cancer, not just for the pain of it, the treatments, the surgery, or the radiation burns, but for making me weak and dependent, and making others pity me. It’s something I never wanted – other people’s pity. I have always been so self-sufficient, able to adapt to every obstacle that life has thrown at me, but that may be gone now – maybe forever.

Tomorrow, I will probably be back to my cheerful appearance and demeanor. Tomorrow, I’ll say “I’m fine” again, even though I don’t think I’ll ever really be fine again.

Today, I’m sad, and angry, and disappointed, and losing hope – but just for today. Tomorrow, I’ll put the “I’m fine” mask on again, and even if it’s pouring rain, I’ll smile and notice the sweet smell of honeysuckle.