I Didn’t Expect to Live

Expectations.

I expected to live a long, healthy life without wondering if I’ll reach my thirtieth birthday.

I expected not to lie awake tonight, stunned and saddened because Alex is gone.

I expected to spend my salary on bachelorette parties and sunny vacations. Not hoard it for healthcare.

Cancer changed my expectations. Some for the better. I fully embrace birthday celebrations now. I remember no one is guaranteed another birthday. I take time for myself. I straighten my hair because I feel beautiful with it—always remembering the many days I didn’t have any hair. I prioritize people because I remember how life is too short and that the impact we leave on people is all that may remain. I do the things—the trip to Hungary, moving across an ocean, or starting my own business. Life’s too short for regrets.

But some expectations are for the worse. I expect to get a secondary cancer any day. Any weird skin thing, or unexpected back pain, or muscle spasm, and the expectations of a secondary cancer are right there. I expect a relapse, even though I’m so far out. I’ve relapsed once, what’s to stop it from happening a second time? I expect that I will never have biological children and that I will struggle to adopt given my health history. I expect the days when I’m in so much pain that the mere thought of movement makes my soul scream to never decrease.

I try to release myself from the expectations of cancer. From looking skinny and gaunt from chemo. From being a fighter. From being a “kick cancer’s ass” person. From living a full life to make up for those who aren’t here.

But I can never shake free from the expectations, as hard as I try. I’m learning, slowly, to calm the demons of expectations. Their weight can feel crushing. People don’t see a girl who has survived cancer twice, and battles daily with chronic issues as a result. They see a plump woman they expect to be a healthy, thriving member of society. And yet, here I am—sick and just scraping by.

They expect me to work out regularly, do yoga, and drink mimosas and wine. They expect me to love going out and on dates. They don’t know that carrying my laptop to work is sometimes all the energy I can muster. Immunity shots outweigh tequila shots. Dating requires more energy than I sometimes have.

I’ve often told people to keep their expectations low, and they will always be met. But I rarely practice what I preach. I have high expectations for myself, and I struggle with the weight of the cancer expectations I cannot control. Perhaps one day, I’ll leave the weight of cancer expectations behind and soar high in freedom. But for today, I’ll gratefully relish the unexpected: I didn’t expect to live.

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