Tag: cancer survivor

Surviving Cancer

There is something people who’ve battled cancer rarely say. “I would have been better off dying from cancer than living as a cancer survivor.” You may hate me for saying this aloud, but I know there are others in my position, holding the same thoughts they feel they are not allowed to say.

We tell ourselves that we would be ungrateful to even think such a thing, and so we keep it inside. Cancer treatment may have kept us alive, but for some of us, it also left us living with losses and limitations that have reshaped our lives in ways we never expected.

The result is a complicated reality where gratitude for being alive exists alongside a deep sense of grief for the life we once had or believed we would return to. It’s a hard duality to live with.

Please tell me there are others who struggle with this.

Here are responses from fellow cancer survivors.

“There is a tightrope one walks, with trauma in one hand and gratitude in the other. Medical PTSD is real and suffering is real. I don’t tell myself anything about being ungrateful. Yes, my life is very different in many ways. I have dark days. I see a counselor. I participate in a grief group. Please don’t feel shame or blame. Nobody “hates” you for your cancer journey. If I was physically suffering to the point that life was unbearable, I would do assisted suicide.“

“You are NOT alone!! It seems the side effects of treatment and surgery are (in some ways) worse than the cancer itself!! Keep keeping on. I support you.“

“It’s okay to feel this way, doesn’t mean you’re not thankful for life. There is that fine line where many of us make a choice of is enough enough for treatments or I’m still fighting. The aftermath of treatment is different for us all and how our bodies hold up.“

“Every single day. If not for my 3 girls, I’d have given up a while ago. I live with an ileostomy, debilitating pain, constant fatigue and depression. I fought to live. But not this way.”

“I struggle with this every day.“

“I do. I’m absolutely glad I’m still alive, but there are most definitely days where I’m so miserable and depressed about where I am now that I have asked myself that question a few times… Was it worth it? Yes and not always. I would absolutely do it again, I just wish I had known how much different I would be after it was all said and done.“

“Every. Single. Day.“

“I’m going thru this everyday now…. I felt better at 3 months post treatment the i do almost 1 year post treatment. My exhaustion is debilitating, my body hurts all day every day, the doctors won’t listen and just push u off on other doctors “

“Not to the point of not wanting to live with cancer any longer. It’s been a long, hard struggle…for me 6 months and not done yet. Hospitalizations, near death experiences, and all the rest. I keep the cards sent me for encouragement…keep them in a special book. It helps at the low times. At the low times I try to remember what it was about life I treasured so much. “

“Yes, it alters your life. I am 26 years out from Stage 4. My doctor was honest with me and told me I would hurt every day for the rest of my life. He said he was sorry, but I was alive. You have to learn to do things in moderation. I can tell you some things improve over time, and you have to change your habits and expectations. You have to find new things that bring you joy.” 

“OMG..you stated exactly how I feel. I am so wracked with issues that I barely recognize myself. The fatigue is unbelievable. NO ONE understands!! Bless you on your journey.“

“You’re not the only one who grieves the body they once had and the person they were before treatment. I do, too, although my side effects are minimal compared to many others and I feel grateful for that at the same time. It’s complicated and challenging but hey, that’s how life is, I guess, so I keep trying to make the best of what is now.” 

The Mirror of Life

I watch her through the hazy window, curled up in her armchair with her dog soundly asleep next to her.  I see her, staring at the lake or the sea birds, or even butterflies wandering between the overgrown milkweed and coneflower clumps she planted years ago, when she still had hopes and dreams, and felt a part of the world around her.

Sometimes, I stand silently across the room, watching her change, watching her world grow smaller and so much quieter.  The loudest thing about her now is the colorful shirts she wears, the ones that are slowly fading from age. 

She rarely speaks now about her future, her hopes, her dreams, because she seems to have lost those things some time ago.  Her spirit has been crushed and revived too many times, and now, it just stays curled up tight in a ball that protects her, not from harm, but from hoping or trying too hard.

She used to write with flourish and vivacity, filling page after page with her thoughts and images, but lately the words have slowed, dully repeating old familiar topics.

She has no patience for long explanations about things in which she has no interest.  She used to be intrigued by the world around her, the people who passed her way, and the ideas they brought with them.  But lately, they are just part of the view, no more than the blades of grass in a yard, or the leaves that must be raked when autumn comes.

Sometimes, she stares at the screen on her desk for hours, her fingers flying as words become rapid-fire lines, only to delete her words, or leave the most non-descript of answers.  Other times, she stares into the horizon, wondering how to respond, and knowing there is more she could say, more she could explain, more that she could do, but in the end her replies are brief and nondescript.  Her responses are as dull as her once laughing eyes. 

There are moments when she feels the urge to push back, to explain her perspective clearly and carefully the way she once would have. She can almost hear the argument forming in her mind, sentence by sentence, the way she used to lay things out so others might understand. But more often now, she lets the moment pass.

She nods along, agreeing politely, or simply changes the subject to avoid responding at all. It’s not that she suddenly has no opinions. It’s that the effort of explaining them no longer feels worth the energy it requires.

Her days have grown quieter in other ways as well. She spends most of her days and nights by herself now, and the solitude is no longer something she actively chooses so much as something that has slowly settled around her. Hours pass without conversation or interaction. Sometimes entire days slip by as she watches weeks and months drift past with little to distinguish one from the next.

Somewhere along the way, she stopped believing that explaining herself would make much difference. When she does try, the explanations feel thin and hollow, as though the words themselves have lost their strength before they ever leave her lips or are committed to paper.  Perhaps, she lost her strength along the way, as well.

The distance she feels between herself and other people is difficult to describe, even for someone who once relied on words so easily. It’s not anger, and it’s not quite sadness; it’s something quieter than that. It feels like standing just outside everyone else’s lives, close enough to see the movement and hear the voices, yet somehow not fully part of it.

It’s like she’s standing outside a door, overhearing pieces of the conversation within.  Listening to words not meant for her to hear, the faint whispers, the occasional word snatched from the air, she tries to grasp them, before realizing their tone and meaning is beyond her grasp.

And so, the days move forward in a quiet rhythm. She does what needs to be done, says only what she must, and lets many things pass without comment. Her days of righteous anger and battling windmills are over. The world continues to speak around her, but she is no longer a part of the whirl.   

Her words no longer carry the spark they once did, nor the wild, living energy that once felt like the tang of the forest, the strength of the mountains, or the sharp freshness of a cool breeze on a humid day combined.

We have spent a lifetime watching the reflection in those eyes. Once there was magic there, a bright spark that danced like flames from a fire. That light is harder to find now.

We have watched her through that window for a lifetime, and still there are moments we barely recognize her. Over time, she has grown quieter, flatter somehow, like the still surface of the mirror where we see ourselves reflected. Her eyes are subdued, and the glint of hope that once lived there has softened into a quiet disenchantment.

She watches her reflection through the haze that has slowly settled over her life. Even as she recognizes what continues to unfold, she is left with the uneasy realization that her future is already laid out in the soft folds of well-worn sheets, soaked in sunlight, and yet hidden in the depths of a well-shaded room.

Surviving Cancer Is Not the Finish Line

We talk about surviving cancer as though it’s the finish line. You ring the bell, everyone cheers, and you move on. What rarely gets mentioned is that sometimes the treatment that saves your life also leaves lasting damage that deeply affects your quality of life.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this whispered in private, “I’m grateful to be alive, but if I’d known how damaged I’d be after radiation and chemo, how much it would limit my life, I’m not sure I’d have gone through with it. I’m not sure I’d have agreed to the treatment.”

Most survivors barely dare to say that out loud, but we sometimes share it quietly with each other. The world assumes that once you survive cancer you’re beaming with gratitude, you live a wonderful life, and everything goes back to normal. What people don’t see is what many of us live with afterward.

Some end up with stents, feeding tubes, or ostomy bags. Some live with bowel obstructions, chronic diarrhea, constipation, or malabsorption that leads to malnutrition. There are fistulas and radiation damage that never fully heal. There is neuropathy, nerve damage, vocal cord paralysis, balance problems, hearing loss, or changes in memory and concentration.

Skin can become fragile and tear easily, and wounds may take far longer to heal than they once did. Bones can weaken, and joints can stiffen, making ordinary movement more difficult. Breathing may not come as easily as it used to, and the heart itself can be affected by treatment.

Hormones shift in ways that disrupt sleep, mood, and overall health. Fatigue is not occasional but persistent, and the immune system often never fully regains its former strength.

The daily reality can be far more personal.  You learn that you need to know where every bathroom is before you agree to go anywhere. You avoid long car rides and carry discrete personal supplies. Some survivors are left with digestive damage that severely limits what they can safely eat, and that can make eating outside the house feel stressful instead of enjoyable.

You have to calculate how long you can stand, how far you can walk, and whether there will be a place to sit. Sometimes, you decide it is safer not to go at all.

Along with everything else, there’s grief. You miss the body you lived in before every ache and twinge meant something. You miss the freedom of saying yes without having to think through every possible consequence. You miss the person you were before your life had to be rebuilt around limitations, and you grieve the future you once assumed was secure.

There’s another layer to all of this, and that’s the financial side of things.  Cancer treatment can financially bankrupt you.  Treatment costs more than most people have, and the bills don’t stop when treatment ends. The complications that follow often require ongoing appointments, medications, supplies, and procedures that add up quickly.

Even ordinary things like going out to dinner, attending a wedding, or contributing to a group gift can become stressful decisions when money is tight. For many survivors, the cost of staying alive slowly erodes financial stability in ways that are hard to explain to people who have never faced it.

Cancer doesn’t just affect your body; it changes your personality in ways you’d never expected. You stop being spontaneous because everything requires thought, planning, and a careful analysis of whether you can tolerate the consequences. Do you have the energy? Can you drive that far or ride in a car that long? Will you be able to park close enough? Will there be a place to sit? Is there a restroom nearby?

Instead of saying yes with excitement, you find yourself saying, “Let me check,” because you need time to think it through. You hesitate, not because you don’t want to go, but because you’re trying to be realistic about what your body can handle. Sometimes you end up canceling when you realize it will cost you more than you can physically afford. Other times, you wait so long to decide that the moment passes, and the choice is made without you.

Some friends or family members may think you’ve become distant or negative. They may wonder why you’re still talking about things they believe you should be over by now. A few may quietly decide that staying close to you requires more effort than they want to give. Simply speaking, they quietly decide that you’re too much work.

They don’t realize that while surgery and radiation can leave visible changes to your body, it also leaves damage you can’t see. They don’t see the numerous complications that now dictate what you can do, how long you stay, and whether you can go at all. They don’t see that movement can hurt, breathing can be strained, and fatigue often gets in the way. They don’t understand that you’ve had to rebuild your entire life around staying functional.

There is also an emotional cost that lingers long after treatment ends. You do not simply forget what your body went through. The procedures, the scars, the burns, the vomiting, the needles; and that vulnerability stays with you long after treatment is finished.

When you feel a new ache, you immediately wonder it might be.  Scans and follow-up appointments can bring a kind of anxiety that is hard to explain to anyone who has not lived it. And somewhere in the background, there is often a quiet panicky thought that you cannot quite silence; you wonder if it’s come back.

I’m not pretending that surviving cancer isn’t something to be thankful for, because it is.  But that doesn’t mean everything goes back to the way it was. It doesn’t mean the damage disappears, or that life feels simple and easy again. A lot of us are learning how to live in bodies that were permanently changed, and we’re doing it while people assume we should just feel lucky and move on.

If you haven’t walked this road yourself, I hope what I’ve shared here makes it a little easier to understand. And if you have walked this road, I hope you know you’re not wrong for admitting it’s been hard.

You can be grateful to be here and still be honest about what it cost you. Those two things don’t cancel each other out.

Cancer Always Has the Final Word – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Cancer Changes Everything – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life