This is a tapestry woven from the insanity and beauty of life. It represents a journey from hopelessness to hopefulness and the process required to move gracefully, albeit clumsily, from one to the other. While there may seem to be no meaning in my cancer diagnosis and the long recovery journey that follows, I am not entirely convinced of this. We find purpose in the absurdity of life’s events and define our mission through the time we are given and the choices we make along the way. I was diagnosed with advanced testicular cancer in April 2016, and I am currently on a path of recovery and healing—a journey of self-love and self-exploration.
Since my cancer diagnosis in 2016, I have been trying to write a memoir about my experience. However, I have found it challenging to make progress, whether because of the emotional triggers this project evokes or its overwhelming scope. Despite these challenges, I have managed to fill numerous journal pages of varying lengths, exploring topics such as illness, mortality, and personal growth.
These are my journal entries posted here in a blog-like format. They consist of rambling thoughts and reflections. I’ve realized that it’s not possible to start at a specific point, such as the date of my diagnosis, and simply move forward, hoping to understand everything. I had to explore a significant portion of my personal history, engaging in self-inquiry and analysis to truly understand the healing process. Healing itself doesn’t begin at one single point. It is a journey.
Although these posts have a sense of linearity, it might be hard to notice at first. Viewing each entry as an individual event, rather than part of a larger story, will provide more insight into my journey. As the story unfolds, it becomes increasingly clear how my life, physical and mental health, and spiritual growth have evolved.
Every year, on the 1st of April, I mention that this is the anniversary of my diagnosis. I talk about the irony of it, being that I was diagnosed on April Fool’s Day. (If you can’t see the incongruous nature of that situation, I’m not sure you’ll make it through life unscathed, my dear.) Today, however, I was thinking about other things, things beyond the absurdity of it all, which, to my pleasant surprise, brought about a giggle or two and not “what the fuck?” moments. You see, life is linear, in a roundabout way. Are you with me? I’ll try not to lose either of us, as I clarify.
We can wake up and go to bed and, in between, either exist or live. I was thinking about this as I stood on a small chunk of land poking out into the Bay of Biscay. Far out, somewhere, a storm was rolling and lurching – as they do. I arrived on foot, having walked from Santander. I knew a storm would come; storms always come; they’re linear – in a roundabout way. I didn’t consider the lightning storm. I was not expecting the hail nor the rapid drop in temperature after that. I thought that I had planned for things… We’re always looking, plotting, and considering ways to plan things. Yes, we’re always planning how to prepare. Things. Things. The linearity, the trajectory. Things. I wanted something to go accordingly. I wanted to exist, plan for hail, and prepare for post-graduate life. Things. Bring my gloves for the drop in temperature, and consider how to outline my resume to make a potential employer go, “He’s our guy!”
Existing. It’s existing.
To exist –
verb (used without object)
to have actual being; be:
The world exists, whether you like it or not.
This isn’t a survival story. Nope. I was freezing to death; I wasn’t lost in the depths of the wilderness. This is about sitting under a tree, stuffing my hands into my armpits to keep them warm while watching a storm pass over a gorgeous seascape. I was existing. I was waiting for linearity to run its course. Yep, I’m just sitting there and waiting it out. Linear. Point A – point B
Cancer and cancer survivorship is not linear. You can stuff your pack with all the shit you can think of, and something will come up, and what was once progression is kicked back to point A. It’s linearity in a roundabout way because it’s progression until it’s not. It’s growth until it’s not. It’s freedom until it’s not.
What truly breaks the cycle is opting to live and not simply exist, being and not endlessly planning to be, enjoying being rather than planning on it. I only realized this…today. However, I don’t know exactly. Sometime between waking up and knowing it was my diagnosis anniversary and accepting the fact that I was actually going to stuff my hands into my armpits because my gloves were sitting on the table at my Airbnb.
To live –
Verb (used without object), lived [livd], liv·ing.
To have life, as an organism; be alive; be capable of vital functions:
I have been in a fight with cancer for 3 years. It has, as you can imagine, altered my life. I keep looking back, gazing longingly at the past, and thinking, ‘It was much better then; life was easier then.”
I catch myself and feel angry and guilty for thinking about this. Even during meditation, I’m annoyed thinking that life was more straightforward then.
Can you offer some advice about being gentler during such a rough time?
Many thanks,
Jeremiah
Hello dear friend Jeremiah,
Thinking about how things were more accessible and better in the past is a natural part of grieving what you have lost. However, what you lost was not your health but your innocence. It was easier then because your problems seemed of a lesser magnitude than your problems now. You still have plenty of innocence, and you still don’t know what the future holds, but when you live with cancer, you have all your other life problems plus cancer. You have a much deeper perspective that can’t ignore the fragility of life. Looking back at your earlier self, you can think, Lucky me, I didn’t know what was coming. You still don’t know what is coming, but you don’t feel as lucky, or you may feel unlucky or cursed. Yet, you are vibrantly alive. It is outrageously courageous of you to sit meditation. Meditation is where your deepest fears vie for the light of your attention. It is where your mind processes your grief. Thinking about a simpler time is a fine thing to do. Wishing for past and future health is a big part of the
process. Feeling guilty and angry for having thoughts is a reaction.
When you notice those reactions, practice responding.
A response is an intentional reaction. When you respond, you can include compassion. Meditation is a time to let go of thoughts. As your attention is on your breath, there is no other thought. You think about the past and notice the thought, then bring your attention to your breath. Feeling guilty for having a thought you didn’t want is another thought, so notice that and bring your attention back to your breath. Your getting angry is another thought; notice that and return to your breath. You don’t need to sort your thoughts into good or bad, right or wrong; you just have to notice them and bring your attention back to your breath. That is repeatedly throwing out your mind. When you finish meditation, you can let your thoughts run again, but meditation is a time to practice dropping off your thoughts.
If dropping off thoughts isn’t working for you. Practice a more active form of mediation. Practice thinking about gratitude. Practice loving-kindness meditation for all of the people in your life. Imagine how others suffer; breathe in their suffering; peace and wellness for them. If you are in the hospital with other people, practice healing them. Breathe in their sickness, and breathe out peace and wellness for them. That kind of thing occupies your mind more than a more open form of mediation.
Walking meditation is also good for that. You move and drop your thoughts off as you focus on your feet, touching and leaving the ground.
Overcoming a pervasive fear takes a lot of practice. Fear digs in and spins off things like guilt and anger. With practice, though, you can change your pervasive habit.
It is still essential to embrace not knowing. Not knowing brought happiness before you knew it, and you must remember that you still don’t know. As you await test results, remember you don’t know. Not good, not bad, just don’t know. As you experience the joy of a positive test result, notice the nirvana of the fears going away. Pain comes and goes. When it goes, that is bliss.
Sometimes, I feel as though I have a very clear idea of what I want to write and what ideas and emotions I’m trying to convey. Other times, I don’t know where to begin and hope that fumbling along will eventually string together enough thoughts to create something solid. This is the former. However, the idea is clear but the words haven’t yet formed.
Recently, I have wondered if this is all worth it. By this, I mean the cumulative fear, stress, and anger that have spanned the last 2.5 years of my life.
With cancer, there is no reprieve. I always wonder if something is lurking. The experience with the recurrence took me so off guard. Now, I always wonder what’s there, just under the surface? What’s going on within me?
In a way, I have become very childlike, existing in this world where shadows are larger than life and wondering about my health every second.
The scans I had 3 months ago were clean. (I will have another round in early August.) The knowledge of clean scans permits me a little time to feel good, safe, and breathe. Then the show starts all over again. The build-up begins weeks (if not months) before the actual test dates; sleepless nights, raw emotions/emotional outbursts, heightened sensitivity to noise or sudden movements, and irritability. There is a pervasive feeling of dread that blankets everything. It’s not so simple to label it as depression; it is too multifaceted. (By the way, I take antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. In addition, I also take a daily regimen of herbal remedies and supplements to combat all sorts of things mood-related.)
This is my existence, and I have honestly been wondering if it’s all worth it and if I can hold on. If I can hold out for that one day when I’ll awake, the nagging fear, the chronic anxiety, and endless worrying will have slipped away in the night.
In June (2018), when I saw my oncologist at Mass General, they asked how I was doing. I felt more and more comfortable with them and knew they were asking on a deeper level (i.e., not just inquiring about fatigue levels, appetite, etc.). I said, “I feel hopeless.” It is a word I hadn’t used much before, if at all. Hopeless: despair, desperate, forlorn, pessimistic, resigned… these words don’t describe who I am. Who was I becoming? What had all this illness done to me? The weight of that word fell upon me.
For me, a state of hopelessness is reached rather gradually. In considering my journey, in relative hindsight, it is akin to wading out into a body of water — just one step, then the other, and so on. I think the longevity of my journey was a sort of cresting wave; the initial diagnosis, the recurrence, the stem cell transplant. Everything consumed me in between the various tests that took place, the preparations, the scheduling of this or that. I had little time to even consider what state I was in. Naturally, there was great sadness, frustration, etc. I never thought these emotions would culminate in hopelessness, or perhaps they were slipping under the radar. The cresting wave broke; it fell upon me. The body of water, the floor of which I could just barely touch amidst everything, was no longer there. Try as I might, I couldn’t touch the bottom. Then, another wave broke and another. I surfaced and looked for the shore, but the swells were too great, too high. All these moments of fear or anxiety, anger or sadness, amounted to a state of hopelessness.
For those unsure of what I’m saying, I will be blunt; I have often wondered about ending my own life. Also, for those who are also wondering how or why I would go through years of cancer-related treatment only to contemplate taking my own life — it is not, nor will it ever be, that simple.
As I said before, I’m holding out for that day when I will wake to even the slightest hint of normalcy.
healing is a circular path 