The irony of being diagnosed with advanced cancer on April Fools’ Day doesn’t escape me. Though I had been told I “might have” cancer several days prior, the diagnosis didn’t actually arrive until this day in 2016. The doctor at the walk-in clinic said that it might be cancerous, but I would need a biopsy to be sure. It wasn’t denial so much as prioritization; I had a thesis to write, a show to install, exams to finish, etc. I assumed a biopsy could wait. Several days later, I woke up in the back of an ambulance, completely disoriented and unaware of my own name. After multiple tests, surgery, etc., I was informed that, yes, it was, in fact, cancer. After such news, under such circumstances, priorities change; a thesis, exams, papers… these would have to wait. Obviously.

I replay this scenario again and again. All of it, not just the initial diagnosis… but every aspect of the last three years. It’s not so much rumination as it is an attempt to understand and make sense of it all. I am looking for something tangible, some meaning…

The truth is, there is none.

Tolstoy said, “The only absolute knowledge attainable by man is that life is meaningless.”

Initial consideration of this philosophical mindset might lead one into deep despair. However, I must agree wholeheartedly.

Tolstoy, however, did find meaning in his life. After publishing Anna Karenina, Tolstoy slipped into a great existential crisis and became increasingly paralyzed by the fear of death. This fear was all-consuming, but perhaps it was a catalyst, pushing him toward finding meaning. He pursued religion and spirituality with the same intensity and fiery passion with which he wrote. His beliefs leaned towards Christianity, but he found that the church, which in his eyes was a corrupt institution, was falsifying the teachings of Jesus. He was inspired by many saints, notably St. Francis of Assisi and others who forsook wealth and worldly goods to pursue a deeper kinship and connection with god.

I want there to be meaning within this, within my journey. I want to find meaning. Looking back over these three years, I am not in a good place tonight. Sitting here trying to pull a couple threads of sense out of the insane tapestry draped before me. That’s all I want; a couple of strands to grasp hold and say, “Look here, I found two reasons! Here are two reasons why!”

I suppose, like Tolstoy, I will have to find my own meaning within all this — to make meaning from it. Maybe one day, when time has softened all this, I’ll find those two strands of meaning and begin to weave my tapestry.