Becoming More Than Okay

“No one will ever understand.” “Just pretend to fit in.” “Why can’t I just be normal?” And more hyperbolic, rhetorical questions to harass myself with over the years. Growing up in a small town with such a fragmented view of humanity imbues a sense of superiority in you. It never even crosses your mind that you could potentially be set back. And then you Will Byers into the Upside Down and your whole world is changed. But just like in the show, your friends and family pull you out. The incessant alarms and hectic nature of the ICU were extremely overwhelming. Sedatives only go so far. What really soothed me were the voices and touch of my parents and immediate family, the jokes and lighthearted conversations with visiting friends, and the constant reassurance and encouragement from nurses and various medical staff.

When I was in the thick of it, I had a solid supporting base. Once I was discharged, I lost certain connections from my extended hospital stay. Except one. My occupational therapist who I did virtually everything with. To say she went above and beyond would be an understatement. When I left, I sent her email updates regularly. Over time we’ve both grown and changed immensely, but our consistent contact and her unwavering support is partly what’s kept me going on. And she’s a big factor in what’s given me the confidence to branch out and do things like this. There weren’t many positives about the hospital but getting to know her and establish a friendship tough as steel and as deep as the ocean is something I’ll never regret. But I still had two-thirds of those foundational people I could steady myself on, and I was more than okay. Initially, I barely noticed the lost connections. My friends and family would visit constantly, always including me and making a noticeable effort to adapt things to accommodate me. But as the pandemic wound down and my recovery evolved, people started to fade away. I made excuses for them in my mind. “They’re working.” “They have schoolwork to do.” “Their schedules are jam-packed!” Harmless at first, but this slow trickle went on for years. Don’t get me wrong—I never lost the tight-knit group of family and close friends who were always there, and I had work colleagues I interacted with daily. But they only went so far. And when you’re spending 10+ hours alone with your thoughts, new, more hurtful questions creep in. “You’re meant to be on your own.” “You’re just a nuisance to be with.” “You’ll never find people like you.”

It was five years post-cancer. I had made an amazing physical recovery. From the outside, I was almost better than ever. But mentally, I felt like the last squeeze of toothpaste that never comes out—whole and optimistic at the start but beaten down and pushed to the limit many times, just to be thrown out without ever serving an actual purpose. Then the secondary thoughts hit. “You’re alive—you have no reason to feel this way.” “So many people are worse off.” The guilt hits, but seeing no alternative, nothing is done to change. The cycle repeats, and the depression deepens. I put on the fake smile and went through the motions. I’ll give myself credit—I did a pretty good job of fooling most people. But my parents saw right through my façade. They gave me so much love and support, but it wasn’t going far enough anymore. We began reaching out and looking for people “like me,” and I’ll never be more grateful to have found groups like Elephants and Tea and YASU. It was nerve-racking for me at first. I was very self-conscious and apprehensive about showing my true self to strangers. I gathered all the courage I had and attended an open-ended Zoom meeting. The hour absolutely flew by, and by the end of it, I knew nobody coming was truly a stranger. Hearing so many different but similar stories, knowing we all had some common ground, and most of all, the unconditional acceptance I felt—for the first time in years, I knew I wasn’t alone. The only way to describe it is satori, the Japanese word for the feeling of wordless, total understanding and peace. After just one meeting, I was searching for more and ended up attending three more in two days. I couldn’t get enough, and it wasn’t long before I learned of cancer camp.

It turned out I had found out about it right after it happened, but the nine months of suspense couldn’t have paid off better. My comfort zone was decimated on night one. I was still thinking and behaving like I needed to prove myself in some way. “Fitting in” became my primary intention, clouded my judgement, and I ended up falling—my worst fear in public. I was extremely embarrassed and tried to preserve the small modicum of pride I had by getting up on my own. It wasn’t in my nature to openly accept help, but something changed for me in that environment. Nick offered me a hand up, and I graciously took it. That small gesture turned down the overwhelming panic and helped me overcome my aversion to opening up to strangers. In that moment, it clicked—I realized everyone there shared some common humanity, and I became more comfortable in my own skin. This was a home away from home, an escape from the constant anxieties of the outside world, and a community of like-minded individuals I was more than willing to be a part of. In those three short days, I made a multitude of friendships and unforgettable memories. I’ve never felt so happy simply seeing someone or having someone say hi to me. Around every corner was another unknown opportunity to discover what I was missing: connection and friendliness.

Before YA Cancer Camp, I had assumed—wrongly—that I would never find, and didn’t need to look for, things like this. But afterward, I felt almost whole again. Two of the closest friends I made even visited me on my birthday. (That was the longest, most anticipation-filled month I’ve ever had.) I finally felt I had things to look forward to. “Look at what they all can and are doing!” “You can do more than you know.” “You belong here and everywhere!” I branched out of my comfort zone, and found comfort in the uncomfortable. I now knew there was so much more out there for me, all I had to do was look and find what felt right. I am eternally grateful for them and everyone I met there. Things were never clear to me, and to an extent still aren’t. But one thing I know for sure is I found where and who I belong with. I found my herd.