There’s a sentence I still can’t quite believe belongs to me: I have three cancers.
The first was CLL. When they found it, I read everything I could get my hands on, and the doctors told me we would simply watch and wait — no treatment unless it started to make trouble. I could live with that. It felt like something I could carry.
Then came the melanoma, and the whole room changed. Suddenly there was no waiting. It was get in here now, right before Christmas — a fast procedure to keep the scar small. I felt pushed, and I said yes before I was ready. I still carry the regret of that decision: a gaping hole, a scar I didn’t choose the way I wish I had. I’ve had to make peace with it.
And then the third. Bladder cancer. I read the pathology and something in me just buckled. The thought came before I could stop it: does my body just have cancer everywhere? This is my life now. I sat in that for about two weeks — sad, angry, stuck, unable to move. And here is the first thing I want to say, especially to anyone who finds themselves where I’ve been: it is okay to fall apart for a while. It’s okay to be sad and scared and bitter, okay to cry. I had to let myself feel all of it before I could feel anything else. This sucks. It’s not okay. I’m allowed to say that.
But I didn’t stay there.
Slowly, I started doing the things that pulled me back toward solid ground. I went to counseling. I opened my Bible. I talked to my family instead of swallowing it all. I let myself reflect instead of just react. And little mercies started showing up in the strangest places — even a weekend drive out to Nevada to pick up a car turned into something restorative. Just breathing. Just being somewhere that wasn’t a waiting room.
The biggest blessing, though, has been the people. Dan offered to come with me to every appointment — every single one — and I can’t tell you what it does for the fear to know you won’t walk in alone. And the doctors. I braced myself for cold and clinical, and instead one of them looked at me and said, I just want to tell you how absolutely beautiful you are. Another told me plainly, you’re not going to die of this cancer. And more than once, from more than one person: you’re not alone. Those words did something medicine can’t. They gave me back my breath.
Once I could breathe, I could actually hear what they were telling me. Bladder cancer, it turns out, is more of a stubborn nuisance than a death sentence — it likes to come back, so there will be scopes every few months, uncomfortable procedures, the whole tiresome routine, maybe more down the road. My immune system is worn down, which is part of why my body keeps getting blindsided. None of that is fun. But knowing it — really understanding it — turned a monster into a problem I can manage. Fear shrinks when you can finally see the shape of the thing.
That’s been the quiet lesson in all of this: my fear almost always paints the picture worse than it turns out to be. My mind rehearses every terrible version — what if they say this, what if it’s that — and I go tumbling down these bunny holes of worry before I’ve even walked through the door. And then I face the actual thing, and again and again I think, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Facing what scares me is uncomfortable, but there’s a strange freedom waiting on the other side of it.
So I’ve grabbed hold of the part I can control. Even if it’s only five percent, five percent is something. I’m back at the gym. I’m walking. I’m eating whole foods, and I’ve cut out almost all the sugar. I’m drinking my water, protecting my sleep, staying in therapy, keeping every appointment. The doctors say the strongest thing I can do is build my immune system back up, and every one of those small choices makes me feel like I’m doing something instead of just having something done to me.
And underneath all of it is my faith. Someone told me to make God my doctor — to keep every appointment, do everything in my power, and then give the rest to Him. Pray about it. Hand it over. That’s become my anchor. When the worry rises up, I give it back.
I keep thinking about fighters, too — the kind who get knocked down and get back up, who win on heart when nothing else is left. Somebody told me: you got this; do everything in your power to fight, and know where you’re planted. I hold onto that. I know where I’m planted.
I won’t pretend every day is brave. There will be days I don’t have the energy or the will, and I’m learning to let those days be what they are. But they don’t get the final word. This cancer has been a lot of things — terrifying, exhausting, humbling — but if I’m honest, it’s also been a teacher. It has shown me how much love surrounds me, how strong I actually am, how much I want to live.
So this is where I’ve landed, and this is what I want you to know if you’re somewhere raw and scared too: feel it all, and then keep going. Let people carry you. Take back your five percent. Give the rest to God.
This cancer is not going to win. One step at a time — I’m still here, and I’m still fighting.
