It doesn’t matter if the ribbon is pink, or teal, or any other of a myriad of colors. It means another person has heard those heart-stopping words: You have cancer.
Once those words are spoken, disbelief does something strange. From that moment on, you barely hear anything else that is said. Or maybe you hear it, but you don’t understand it. You certainly don’t remember it. The words bounce around the room like sound effects in a movie theater, echoing without meaning, until everything turns into a kinetic blur.
And if you happen to be alone when those words are spoken, the first time you try to say them yourself, they come out one of only a few ways.
Sometimes they are choked out through sobs, leaving the listener struggling to understand what you are trying to say, only knowing that whatever it is has shattered you.
Sometimes they come as a low, gravelly whisper, barely audible, but powerful enough to silence the room.
And sometimes, you don’t say them at all. You keep them locked inside, afraid to even whisper the words you are certain you must have misheard, even though deep down you know they are true.
The unfairness hits hard. Why me? Reality hits. Why not me?
All the qualifiers the oncologist offers, “We’ve caught it early.” “The chances of getting this under control are promising.” “Surgery alone may take care of things.” They ring in your ears. But your heart and your mind hear something else entirely. They see the worst. The awful realization that your life might be ending, and that there is still so much you planned to do. Wanted to do. Needed to do.
The people you might be leaving behind.
The good you always meant to do.
The changes you intended to make.
The challenges you believed you would someday meet.
All of it floods your thoughts and your body at once. It spins together into a blinding, hopeless spiral of the life you could have had, if only you had known.
But don’t we all know that life is finite? Fragile? And yet we are stunned when that truth becomes more real than we ever imagined it could be.
Reality is something we push aside while we live our daily lives. Sleep. Wake. Dress. Eat. Work. Repeat. Over and over, without much thought.
The plans we always meant to follow through on slowly slip away with each step we take and each quiet thought we set aside. The day-to-day cycle becomes the pattern. The pattern becomes everything. It spins until we barely recognize that there was ever anything else.
Until the word, barely spoken, speaks: cancer. And the pattern changes so quickly it disarms us.
Now the pattern is appointments. Recovery. Radiation. Chemo. Maybe immunotherapy. So much stops mattering. The world shrinks almost overnight.
Nausea. Retching. Exhaustion. Malaise. Shrinking. An endless fog of confusion. Alternating devastation and hope.
We live for the day this aggressive pattern ends. We wait to be finished. To be well. To continue our lives. We believe that once this is over, everything we dreamed of will still be waiting for us. But cancer always has the final word.
For some, life itself ends the conversation. For others, the collateral damage left behind by the disease, and even more by the treatment, forces life to be reordered. Reorganized. Reassembled. Reimagined.
The things we mourned when we first heard that word are no longer possibilities. We recover. We mourn. We go on. But we are never the same.
Regardless of the ribbon color. Despite the unpronounceable name that both specifies and reduces our lives. Not even when survival is the outcome.
We return to a pattern. A slightly altered one. Waking. Dressing. Eating. Working. Resting. Dreaming. A life reshaped by a single word that still echoes, long after it was first spoken: cancer.
Cancer Changes Everything – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life
“I’m Fine” – The Reality of Surviving Cancer – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life
