Dear Cancer, You Were Never the Ending

Come and hear Selina read this piece to cancer out loud at our upcoming Perkatory event! October 9th, 7:00pm ET

You didn’t just show up—you broke in.
You didn’t knock; you kicked the door in, tossed your shoes on my clean floor, and made yourself comfortable in places you were never invited. You rifled through my body like it was yours to claim, leaving scars that tell the truth even when I’m smiling. You took my energy, certainty, and a version of my face I’ll never see again in the mirror.

The day I met you, the room went silent in a way I’ll never forget. A doctor’s lips moved, but the words didn’t feel like mine to hear. They belonged to someone older, someone sicker, someone else entirely. I thought there’d be a moment to fall apart, but I went straight into survival mode. No tears, no collapse, just lists. Appointments. Questions I didn’t want the answers to.

You moved quickly. Tests, scans, surgeries. You didn’t care about my timeline or life plans; you made yourself the main character without asking. And I played along at first because how do you fight something suddenly living inside you?

I remember the nerve graft the most. They cut open my C-section scar, took what they needed, and left me with a smile that doesn’t land where it used to. A sideways grin, numbness along my jaw to my ear. People say they don’t notice, and maybe they don’t, but I do. Every time.

And then there were the comments.
“You don’t look sick.”
“Wow, you’re so strong.”
“You’re lucky they caught it early.”

Lucky? I was Stage 4. Nothing about that was early. I was dismissed, waved off, told it was something else until they cut me open and found the truth. By then, you’d lived in me long enough to leave your fingerprints everywhere.

But here’s what you didn’t see:
Every test, every cut, every sleepless night—turned me into a person you can’t touch anymore. You were a thief, but I was a builder. I rebuilt a life without asking your permission. I learned how to live in a body that doesn’t work the same way, how to hold joy and grief in the same palm without dropping either.

You made me paranoid about the future but also made me fall in love with it. I notice things now. The way my son’s laugh has changed as he’s grown. How the air smells different before it rains. The quiet pleasure of leaving a party when I’m tired, without apologizing. You made me ruthless with my time, and I mean that as a compliment to myself.

You didn’t get to write the ending. You weren’t the ending. You were just the plot twist. The part of the story where readers sit up straighter and wonder if the main character will make it. Spoiler alert: I do.

And if I’m being honest, you did give me something… material.
One hell of a chapter. Not the one I wanted, but the one that made the rest of the story worth telling.

So, thank you for nothing. And thank you for everything you didn’t manage to take. My joy. My humor. My voice.

This letter isn’t a goodbye. You and I will probably keep crossing paths in blood tests, follow-up scans, and late-night what-ifs. But you don’t scare me like you used to. I’ve learned how to live with the echo of you without letting it drown me.

You were never the ending.
Just the scene I refuse to let define me.