Cancer is a Thief

It stole not one, but two of my friends last week. Will it also come for me again?

Photo by Mike Labrum on Unsplash

Cancer is a thief.

Two beautiful souls are simply gone this week.

I have tried to figure out what to say about it and I keep coming up empty.

I think it’s because I feel empty.

I’m gutted in fact. For their families, for those that loved them. For our small, queer cancer advocacy family.

I learned a few months ago about the difference between writing from the wound and writing from the scar.

Loosely meaning: writing about pain when its sharp and searing and fresh (the wound) versus writing once the wound has dulled with time and distance (the scar). A little perspective. Not healing per se but I think perspective applies here.

Today, I’m writing from the wound. I may look back on this and wish that I had given myself time and space to process before putting words to the page and sending them out into the world.

But I also think it’s important to share what this particular wound is like.

I’m not going to memorialize my friends right now. I will do so, but likely in private or in a small group. But not here. Or maybe here, but later. I don’t know…

They were both young, creative, artists, travelers, queers. They had big lives stretched out in front of them. Families, partners, a child. From geographically different places yet brought together by cancer. They were light. Big bright shiny beautiful lights that will live on regardless of where their physical bodies rest. But they should still be here today. How could we lose them both, in one week? The loss is staggering. These words do no justice to who they were and the marks they leave on this world…

What I want to share today is the complexity of living with a disease that no longer lives in me.

I wrote this as I tried again to process my own grief:

At first, it’s crushing grief and sadness at the finality of it. They are just no longer here. At least not the way they were.

My mind soon drifts to myself. Which makes me feel awful. Selfish.

But how do I grieve them yet somehow not consider my own possible recurrence?

My renewed mortality.

They were younger than me.

That feels particularly cruel.

My mind is bouncing off a million thoughts and questions.

“How can you think of yourself? It’s ok to think of yourself. Stop thinking of yourself. Remember them. That pinches. Their families. Their partners. That really pinches. Unfair doesn’t cut it. I don’t have words. We need to find a way to grieve collectively. Let’s plan that. Do something. Keep moving. Yes, plan something. Doing something is a distraction but I can’t sit with these spinning thoughts. So do. Do something. Anything.”

I’m in a quiet, slow moving panic that feels like wading through a muddy swamp in concrete shoes.

I’m detached from reality. Going through the motions only to forget what I’m in the middle of.

I need to stop.

Sit.

Stop deflecting. You’re going to have to feel this. So feel it.

I sit.

Tears squeeze from the corners of my eyes. I reach for deep slow breaths but can’t quite feel my lungs fill. More tears.

I’m profoundly sad. Every cell in my body feels empty.

The depth of this sadness is not for me. Or my mortality. It’s for my friends. For their futures. For the indelible marks they had not yet left.

I don’t know how long I sat. And tried to breathe. And quietly wept. And thought of my friends.

We weren’t close in an every day way. We didn’t talk on a regular basis. But we shared something. A nuanced understanding of this particular mashup of queerness and cancer.

We checked in on each other. We encouraged or just affirmed each other.

I wish…

I won’t go there. I won’t wish I had done something different or better.

I’ll not shame myself today.

Cancer teaches us to set boundaries. To protect ourselves. To say no. It’s a kickstand. You had cancer. No other explanation needed. If you can’t show up for that day, ‘nuff said. I’m tired. I had cancer. I’m tired. A lot. The cancer card… the kickstand.

I don’t think we measure love in likes and DMs. I think it’s measured in knowing. Knowing that someone has shown you they care. They don’t need to tell you each week how much they care. Although following up and checking in over time establishes a rhythm of trust even if that rhythm is faint and distant.

Is it about doing “enough” or about doing what you can? Do we mutually agree that what we can is enough?

Cancer is a thief. It stole my friends.

I wish the only grief I felt was for them.

But this cancer cancers my mind and I can’t shake the impending doom.

So I float. Grieving my friends. Myself.

There no trust in peace. But for some of us there’s still living. Living before the thief tries to snatch us up again. So we live on with them imprinted on our hearts. Captured there… young, vibrant, and boldly queer. 🏳️‍⚧️ 🏳️‍🌈

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A note to readers: I struggled mightily with whether I wanted to share this publicly. I still don’t know if I want to. But I decided to put it out there.

When grief is present and overwhelming, trying to figure out if you’re in the frame of mind to put something out into the world is a particularly vulnerable and uncertain task. But I think back to the darkest moments I’ve had and often the things that buoy me while I’m sinking are seeing my own thoughts and struggles reflected in someone else’s. It alleviates my isolation by reminding me that I’m not alone on this earth or in my pain. Others have been here before and will be here after. The pressure to say the right thing or the perfect thing can be paralyzing. Yet the ongoing and repeated decision to remain visible also compels me to share even when it feels foreign and uncomfortable. To me, this is community. My hope is that sharing this moment and my pain will find those who need it. Thanks for seeing me through it. 🏳️‍⚧️ ❤️‍🩹