My sister purchased sweatpants and a cozy sweatshirt for me during the first few weeks of my initial treatment in mid-April 2016. Initially, I didn’t want to wear them to treatment; I wanted to attend each grueling session dressed in a button-down collared shirt and trousers that blurred the line between dress and casual. I liked to look presentable—I needed to.

I arrived at the treatment clinic directly from Chicago, where I worked on completing an MFA, actively attended daily classes, wrote my thesis and art history paper, and generated visual work in general. As such, I consciously dressed in a way that, I hoped, exuded professionalism and spoke to my qualities. There was, however, another very conscious act; I wanted to maintain this daily dress code as a ‘fuck you!’ to cancer.

My work week was, in fact, a full-time job; I was in the treatment center Monday through Friday from 8 am to 4:30 pm. I often arrived before my oncologist and was in my chair, books, and laptop set up and ready to power ahead and finish an art history paper while they were still mixing up my toxic chemo cocktail. On one occasion, I heard my oncologist ask my nurse, “What is he doing over there?” she replied, “he’s working.” As I said, it was my full-time job; I was going to dress the part, grind away, and flip the bird to cancer.

But treatment took its toll.

The nurse who at one time informed my oncologist I was working was now mainlining me with Ativan because the 40-hour week was causing such severe panic attacks.

“It’s Friday; we expect you to be like this,” she said.

Was that a carte blanche to unhook my IVs and run screaming from the clinic? Perhaps, but I didn’t have the energy to do so. Instead, I requested a blanket from the warmer, curled up, and cried.

The following week, I began wearing my new sweatpants and sweatshirt.

No one took a second look at my attire. In fact, I received more attention when I showed up for treatment dressed like I was going in for a day as a data analyst than when I appeared in sweatpants, prepped for an 8-hour treatment cycle. The clothing I usually would only sleep in became my new go-to look on most days.

But it was more than a look, obviously, and more than physical comfort, which became increasingly important as the weeks dragged on. The ease of shedding one pair of sweatpants for another can’t be overstated when depleted of all energy sources.

Since 2016, I have worn the same few pairs of sweatpants to bed when lounging around the house and even while walking on the treadmill. After each washing, I am surprised that they remain intact.

Recently, when I visited my sister, she saw the state of my sweatpants and immediately ordered new ones. She’s like that; without hesitation, she will act in a way that might be simple but can change a person’s entire day – usually for a lot longer.

When I returned home from my visit, the package arrived within a day with various items, and yes, including sweatpants.

With their arrival, I knew it was also time to part with the old pairs. I folded them neatly, ceremoniously, as if I were going to lay them to rest somewhere sacred and not put them in the trash as I did. When I returned to my room, I saw the new sweatpants and, though I partly expected this, became incredibly emotional. For undeniable reasons, there is an aspect of sentimentality brought about by years of owning something. However, when a particular thing has wrapped you up, encased you, and held you literally in its fibers during your most vulnerable times, its presence surpasses sentimentality. That, paired with the endless generosity of my sister, made giving up the old apparel and welcoming the new bittersweet.

It is human nature to want the reassurance that something or someone will catch us if we fall; if we stumble, somebody will help us. The unconscious knowledge comforts us on some primordial level, that a hand will reach out and grasp us and that we can let go.

After trying on my new sweatpants, feeling that strange pleasure of fabric that is both too crisp and refreshingly new, I understood that the garments my sister initially gave in 2016 were indeed that hand reaching out. Somewhere between ceremoniously discarding the well-worn apparel and snipping the tags off the new threads, I understood that the tiniest gesture holds the most significant importance.

I had to remain in the car when my sister purchased the first set of various items for me. I was too ill to go into Old Navy. I sat curled up on her car’s front seat, craving the comfort of my bed, the relief an anti-nausea medication would bring. Her return with multiple bags containing an assortment of clothing was her way of offering me comfort; it was one of many, but this particular gift came during the first stages of my treatment when I felt particularly rough.

We arrived home, and though it was several years (and another lifetime) ago, I can remember the comfort of my new sweatshirt. Though I have since parted with the pants, I refuse to leave behind the sweatshirt and all the memories, good and bad, that it conjures up.