Hey Cancer, you probably already know this, but I’m going to say it again: you’re terrible.
I’m having a moment of nostalgia, and it’s bittersweet. I remember a night filled with laughter, dancing, and a bit too much wine for a couple in their 30s. My husband, Jake, and I met up with friends for dinner, and one thing led to another. We found ourselves dancing long past the bedtime we had set for ourselves as parents of three. There were plenty of inside jokes, some reminiscing about the carefree days before kids, and even a moment when one of our friends laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink but refused to leave the fun behind.
I think back to that joy-filled evening—when laughter came easily and the memories created were ones we cherished deeply. We were just a couple of normal people, blissfully unaware of the battle that was to come.
Recently, I walked into the same bar to grab takeout and was hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong, I could almost taste the sweetness of those drinks we enjoyed. But now, as I look around at the patrons, I realize we’ve changed. We are not those carefree people anymore. Almost two years ago, the uninvited guest named Cancer crashed our lives and sent our normalcy packing.
Now, we’re often sad, angry, and battling feelings of despair. Our lives have become a series of hospital visits, doctor consultations, and chemotherapy sessions. The gourmet meals we once enjoyed have been replaced with feeding tube formulas and a mountain of medications. Conversations have dwindled, often interrupted by tears. Laughter has become a thing of the past.
My kids, all under the age of 10, didn’t know what Cancer meant until now. I despise that I have to explain your presence to them. They feel the heavy sadness that fills our home, and I’m exhausted from telling them that “Daddy doesn’t want to be sick” or “Daddy wishes he could play.” The heartbreaking moment when one of my twins wished for her “old dad” back shattered my heart.
I wish I had the strength to be completely honest with them, but Cancer, you’ve stolen so much from us already. Anger has replaced the tears as I think about all you’ve taken: our laughter, our happiness, and precious time with our children. Promises made to them—trips to Disneyland, camping adventures, and father-daughter dances—now hang in a cloud of uncertainty.
And let’s not forget intimacy. Oh, how I resent you for robbing us of that too. I may not be the best cook or housekeeper, but I excelled in that area of our marriage. We had our share of disagreements (what newlywed couple doesn’t?), but we loved each other fiercely.
The other day, I saw an elderly couple walking hand in hand, and it filled me with rage. You are robbing me of a future with Jake, the man I married 15 years ago. We used to joke about how we would deal with aging, like how I would probably be late to my own funeral—his dry humor always reassuring me he would get me there on time. But you’ve taken that humor too, leaving behind a frail shadow of the man I once knew.
I’m furious that the healthcare professionals only see Jake as a sickly figure, unaware of the vibrant man he used to be. They don’t recognize the guy who could swim the length of an Olympic pool with ease, or the one who could navigate a speedboat like a pro on weekends. They don’t know the father who once held our newborn twins with tears of joy in his eyes.
Cancer, you are truly despicable. Yes, I miss our old, carefree lives, and I know Jake does too. But even in this darkness, we’ve found support—friends and families who lift us up when our hope is dwindling. Neighbors who bring meals and help with the kids are a lifeline, keeping us afloat as we strive to maintain some semblance of normalcy for our children—who still ride their bikes, play soccer, and laugh over silly things.
Despite all you’ve taken from us, Cancer, you can’t have our memories. You can’t erase the nights filled with laughter or the moments that brought us together. I will forever hold onto the memories of our first kiss, the joy of our kids playing, and the sound of Jake’s laughter.
So, here’s my message to you: the only thing I can give you is my middle finger. That’s what any normal person would do.