Not Always A Cinderella Story

I remember walking into the waiting room at the Allan Blair Cancer Center and seeing a few older couples in the waiting room. I also saw a younger couple around my age sitting beside each other; the girl was filling out the paperwork while the boy looked at her with concern.

You could tell he had no idea what to do, but he wanted to make sure that she didn’t feel like she was alone. The younger couple was called to their appointment before me, so I had some time to sit with my thoughts. I wasn’t sure what was harder: being alone—like myself—waiting for an appointment with a hematologist to find out an official diagnosis, or being with a loved one and seeing the heartbreak in their eyes. You know that all they want is to just take away your pain, but they know they can’t.

I’ve been hyper-independent my whole life and maybe a bit of a control freak. I don’t let many people in because of my past. My zodiac sign is Cancer, but I never thought I would actually get cancer. Yet, here we are. When I was first told my unofficial diagnosis over the phone, I didn’t want many people to know. I went through my bone marrow biopsy alone, and I went to doctor appointments and even chemo alone. I just wanted to be by myself. It sounds sad, but at the time I couldn’t take on the emotions of others; I could barely keep my emotions in check. I know that my empathy takes over, and I don’t know how to draw the line.

Growing up, I had a hard time relying on people or letting them in. Many people left me, and it was hard because it happened often. I had family leave without a word; I had many people in my life who made me feel like I was only good enough when no one else was around, and I was left behind when they found someone better. I felt disposable. Instead of putting myself out there, finding my people, or going on dates, I kept my heart closed and did what many people in my life didn’t know how to do: put myself first. I did things alone because nothing would ever happen if I waited for others.

I was not a party girl growing up. I liked being around a small group of people and I didn’t like participating in drinking. In my second year of university, I went to a party off campus (something I did not do often). My classmate, Lana, and her twin had thrown a party at their small condo. When I walked in, there were only a handful of people in the house, and there weren’t many that I knew. Having any type of attention on me was my worst nightmare, so I made sure to not make a scene when I found a chair in the kitchen. There were a handful of single freshmen at the party, and Lana made sure that I knew which ones I should talk to, even though I had no desire to pursue anyone. She pushed me to dance with Brady and, with hesitation, I thought, “Fine, what’s the harm.” We didn’t talk much at the party, but the following week he added me on Facebook.

He began to talk to me often. At first it was nice, but after a while I felt like I was on Jeopardy where I was asking the questions and he wasn’t asking any back. Fear took over after a couple of weeks of talking, and I ended it after he asked me for coffee. At the time, I was protecting my heart because I didn’t know how to let anyone in.

I learned that when I know there is no expectation and I am not scared, I can let people in. However, when there is pressure I shut down. I don’t like being vulnerable, and I have never liked being in situations where I can’t control the outcome.

I couldn’t have predicted what would happen to him in the six weeks following cutting off communication with him; no crystal ball would have shown me his future. I was in my residence room on my laptop scrolling on Facebook when I came across his sister’s post about him. He was in the hospital; he was diagnosed with cancer; it wasn’t good. I froze. I instantly started crying because I felt like a terrible person for the way I treated him. I had no idea how to proceed, so I didn’t. I beat myself up over something I could not have predicted, and I never reached out because what do you say to someone whose life will never be the same? So, I went on with my life. I would see updates on Facebook throughout my university career and would like posts he shared, but that’s all I could get myself to do. I know I didn’t cause his cancer, but I felt terrible for the way I treated him. I didn’t even give him a chance.

After that, I never entertained another relationship. I told myself I was working on me because I didn’t like who I was as a person. Looking back I think it’s because I didn’t want to be vulnerable with someone; I didn’t want to change, and I didn’t want to give up my independence. If I didn’t entertain something, another Brady couldn’t happen again. My high school and university friends also played a huge part in my lack of relationships.

Growing up, I watched my friends turn into people I didn’t recognize when they got into relationships. I was pushed aside and was an afterthought, and I guess I didn’t want to ever be in a position of making someone feel the way I felt when my friends were in relationships. There were times my friends made me feel like I needed to change, like I wasn’t good enough for who I was. They told me I should finally dye my virgin hair; I should go out and get drunk; I should go talk to boys; I should just loosen up. And, in my head, I thought that if the people to whom I held such a high standard couldn’t see my worth or thought changing me would help, what would a stranger want me to do, or how would they make me feel?

I did end up liking a few people in university, but I had no confidence in myself and I had every excuse under the sun to not talk to them. Yes, I found them attractive, but it was the way they treated people and the way they carried themselves that made them attractive. It was their characteristics and actions that made me appreciate who they were…from a distance.

I graduated during the pandemic, and I finally started working my adult job and living the new pandemic life. During this time, I told myself that I would never put myself out there unless I was scared that I wouldn’t be here. I didn’t think I would be scared of dying at 27 years old, but when the oncologist walked into my overflow room at the hospital and told me, “You have to fight or you’re going to die,” I knew I had to start living life differently.

I knew I needed to start putting myself out there even if I was scared. I could no longer use the excuse that I need to work on myself because everyone is a work in progress. So, that’s what I did: I slid into the DM’s (as kids say nowadays). I did the things I was scared to do because I didn’t know if I had much time. I went from being scared of rejection to feeling liberated that I actually did something I have always been scared to do.

The Cinderella Story might have a happy ending, but, in reality, most of the time no one gets their Cinderella moment. I definitely never did, and that’s OK. Dating is complicated enough; cancer just makes it that more complicated. I gained a friend out of my first reach-out attempt, but after that, I hit a wall. I constantly had this scenario playing out in my head: “Oh, what do you do for work?” “Oh, I don’t, I am on sick leave.” “Why are you on sick leave? You look healthy to me?” Then I will have to retell the story of my medical trauma.

I am not sure what makes dating daunting: if it’s the looks of pity that I visually picture, the awkward pause I have experienced because people don’t know what to say, the empty “I’m sorry you’re so young,” or feeling like you’re broken or fragile because of your disease. I thought relationships would be hard once I was diagnosed, but my infertility would also play a role in my life and how I looked at dating.

I’ve always wanted to be a mom and, if I’m being honest, I can’t say I have ever wanted to be a wife. I always pictured a mini-me in my life; however, I was never the girl who pictured myself in a fancy white dress.

Finding out I had cancer forced me to figure out my reproductive health a lot sooner than I had ever planned. I was informed by the fertility specialist that my chances of being a biological mom to begin with were going to be hard regardless of cancer, but treatment would basically make it impossible for me to have kids. I cried more on that drive home from that appointment than I did in the five days of staying on the oncology floor.

Kids have always been more of a priority to me than men. While everyone my age I knew was out partying and dating, I was usually babysitting or hanging out with the little people in my life. I can’t say that I know lots of guys my age who want kids, but I know that being around guys who don’t like kids is hard. Knowing that I could be with a guy who loves and wants kids, even though I can’t carry any, is even harder to process. This is one of many things I am still working on: reminding myself that I am not damaged goods because I can’t hold a title that I have always wanted.

To this day, I still sit in the cancer clinic waiting rooms by myself, and that is OK. It doesn’t make me sad. I also don’t beat myself up over Brady anymore, and I can happily report that he is in remission and is living out his engineering career.

Have I put myself out there to go on dates? No, but that doesn’t mean I have completely given up or am not going to try to find someone. I think it’s just me realizing that navigating the cancer dating world is complicated. I have to remind myself that it’s going to take time, vulnerability, and grace with myself. So for now, I will keep being the cool auntie for the kids in my life as I navigate dating in the cancer world. I may one day meet my person, but even if I don’t, I will always love myself for who I am on the outside and in. I know my worth. I am not my cancer diagnosis. It’s only a chapter in my life, not my whole storyline.