Dear Cancer: I Will Never Say Thank You

Dear Cancer,

If I tell you this, promise not to tell anyone else, because I can barely bring myself to write it, and I will never say this out loud. I’d rather uncomfortably swallow it like a week’s worth of pills, and I want you to swallow it too.

It’s my fourth cancerversary. I have no evidence of disease and I’m now a productive member of survivor society. I’m out there sharing my story, advocating, connecting with other survivors and, dare I say, thriving. But shamefully, I can feel this secret trying to creep out of me. A secret I captured four years ago and am still trying to keep caged. A secret like a long, wispy trail of smoke, rising from a smoldering so deep inside that I don’t even feel its heat through all the layers of my tissue and skin. Or I do, and just pretend that I don’t.

Four years ago, I was horrified when you called to introduce yourself. Devastated. Outraged. It was hate at first sight.

But, and I really mean it, don’t say anything—I was also . . . relieved.

Hey, stop enjoying this. This isn’t about you. This is my story, and for once, you don’t get to write it.

The truth is I was overworked and exhausted, and I needed a break. And you, Cancer, are The Break. You are red lights flashing, loud bells ringing, and gate arms closing at a train crossing. Actually, you are somehow both the alarm AND the train. Barreling toward me at an unfathomable speed, demanding that I stop everything and devote my full attention back to saving myself. No questions, no time to prepare, just now, and NOW. So, I did. And shhhh . . . I liked it.

I mean, I didn’t like chemo, obviously. Chemo sucks! It’s forcing yourself to take poison that burns and bites you from the inside out with side effects that last for days or weeks, but also, it’s four to five hours of quiet time to yourself to watch a show, play a game, text a friend, and just chill in a reclining chair with people checking in on you and bringing you heated blankets and drinks.

Surgery’s the worst, right? The horror of seeing a person sliced up and reassembled by parts, and then realizing that person is me. Surgery is painful in a sharp, deep way, and then totally the opposite of painful because the drugs are so strong, and then painful again. But also, it’s weeks of rest and taking it slow, savoring your favorite foods being delivered, gently stretching out your limbs, and figuring out what your new body can do.

And radiation—ugh. Never again! The uncomfortable positioning, the dumb tattoos, the burnt and peeling skin. But also, for me, the daily routine became a pattern of healing. After each treatment, I would slowly ascend the stairs back to the roof of the hospital parking structure, very slowly because I was fatigued and broken yet filled with determination. Breathing in the fresh air, I was surprised by how much I could move my broken body.

Cancer, you are awful, and nasty, and tricky, and maddening, and weakening, and exhausting, and relaxing, and resetting, and a chance to start again. A chance to rethink how I spend my time every day and what my priorities are. An excuse to hang out with the people I want in my life instead of being too busy to even plan to meet up. A reason to let go and to rest and to pick up again when I’m ready. Cancer, you didn’t break me or make me stronger, but you allowed me to change.

I will never say thank you. I am not grateful for you. But—and don’t you dare repeat this—you were exactly what I needed.

This article was featured in the June 2024 Dear Cancer issue of Elephants and Tea Magazine! Click here to read our magazine issues.