The ghost of cancer is me.
Or rather, the old me.
The me that was less afraid of seeing the hospital’s number on the caller ID.
The me that had witnessed loved ones go through chemo, but only knew the horrors of it from the observer’s point of view.
The me that didn’t have any scars.
The me that didn’t know how to advocate for myself.
The me that didn’t have to juggle nonstop appointments with “real life” with masterful precision.
The me that always thought I would feel good enough to work a grueling full-time job.
The me that didn’t have night sweats.
The me that was less open-hearted.
The me that was less comfortable sharing my stories.
The me that was more critical of my body.
The me that was so hard on myself.
She has been replaced.
Some days I grieve for her and imagine what she would be doing today.
But most days I realize I can hold her tight and send my good wishes backwards through time to reach her heart.
I can love her and mourn her and set her free.
The ghost of cancer is me.
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