01/04/2025
Every now and then, I think about the gun and cancer analogy.
You know, the one about how having cancer and then being lucky enough to recover from it is like having a gun pressed to the back of your head, a gun you can't see, and someone whispering in your ear, "One day, I might kill you with this. Or I might not. We'll see."
Or something like that, anyway. I'm paraphrasing.
I cannot fully express how hard it is to constantly live in this in-between space - this space between being okay and wondering if the next scan is the one when I find out that it's back.
And how, sometimes, I forget - just for a moment - that I had cancer at all.
But then I see that someone I've met along this winding way - someone who was NED and therefore, by all that is good and right and happy in this world, should be able to move on with their lives - has again been struck down. And I watch their updates. I read them. And I see and hear them - both in their spoken and written words - getting tireder and weaker. And I know that, one day - who knows when - I'll see those dreaded words.
It happened again today.
It chokes me, that dread, that sorrow, that mourning. And that gun presses back up against my head and says, "What makes you so special? Why shouldn't you be next? Why do you deserve to live when they died?"
And it's hard. So. Very. Hard. I feel so tired, walking this ridiculous tightrope between moving on and holding on, between living and mourning.
Honestly, most days, I just try and push everything down.
Trust me, I've tried everything. But the grieving process is long and hard. And I don't know how long it will take me to ever not be angry. Or sad.
But I'll keep trying. And no matter how hard it gets, I'll keep trying to push for better care and outcomes for bowel cancer patients.
Because it's the least I can do, with this second chance that I've been given.
