Week 1 - Journal
Sunday, October 31, 2010
For four years I have been recording my journey as a young cancer patient. With no one to compare my unique story with, writing became the only outlet I had that actually made me feel like I was pushing forward. After thirteen surgeries and experimental treatments one can go through that kind of life and not see improvements as fast as they had hoped. In the beginning it was just a way for me to remember my day because the combination of narcotics, radiation, and chemotherapy were eating away at my memory. But eventually it became a way for me to see myself growing stronger. On the days when I feel like giving up, my own entries give me hope in a way that hearing from a loved one, "Just keep fighting," doesn't.
As I read through my old journal entries, I am taken back to the moments when I wrote them. The emotion and rawness of those moments flood back into my mind and I begin to weep. It's a feeling of accomplishment--I can see how far I have come and it amazes me. But the pain and loss still lingers on.
When I talk to people who have heard my story they look at me in awe. "Wow, I expected you to look awful after all the things you have been through, but you're a beautiful young woman." Or, "I cannot believe how strong you are. You're such an inspiration." These are some of the words I hear often. And in those moments it is absolutely crazy to me that my story has reached so many people, people in different countries and on opposite sides of the world, but I continue to go along with their unfiltered comments. Although it does not shock me anymore, there was a time when I could not believe some of the words that came out of peoples' mouths. In times of suffering most people just do not know what to say. As the one who has suffered, you quickly learn the phrases that set you off: Everything happens for a reason, You're an inspiration, God has a plan for you, Don't let the cancer win, Keep on fighting, and my list can go on and on. Sometimes you just want to hear, "Life sucks, and I don't know what's next for you."
But when I hear these phrases they want to hear me speak, so I'll say something like, "It's been hard, but I'm getting through it." And with every word that pours out of my mouth they find more and more reasons to praise me for what I have been through. I find myself faking my way through the conversation, telling them whatever they want to hear. I cannot stop. Adrenaline takes over and I start to portray this confident young woman. I then begin to appreciate this unrecognizable side of me, until I realize I am only giving them half the story. Because most people want to hear the stories of warriors and how they overcame unbearable circumstances, not stories of the days when you were too sick and frail to function wishing this disease would just finish you off and free you from the constant pain and suffering... Fighting back my true emotions, I quickly thank them for their prayers and walk away. If only they really knew...
If only they really knew how weak I really am sitting alone in my room with a pen in my hand and a book full of tears lying across my lap over the distorted scar that runs down my thigh reminding me that I'll never be normal again... Deep breath.
But I can't let them see this broken side of me...
So I smile and nod, Thank yous pour out of my mouth in routine, for this happens every week. And as they walk away, little by little, I begin to see what they see.
But still, they have no idea. Not a clue. Nobody does. So I continue to write...
For four years I have been recording my journey as a young cancer patient. With no one to compare my unique story with, writing became the only outlet I had that actually made me feel like I was pushing forward. After thirteen surgeries and experimental treatments one can go through that kind of life and not see improvements as fast as they had hoped. In the beginning it was just a way for me to remember my day because the combination of narcotics, radiation, and chemotherapy were eating away at my memory. But eventually it became a way for me to see myself growing stronger. On the days when I feel like giving up, my own entries give me hope in a way that hearing from a loved one, "Just keep fighting," doesn't.
As I read through my old journal entries, I am taken back to the moments when I wrote them. The emotion and rawness of those moments flood back into my mind and I begin to weep. It's a feeling of accomplishment--I can see how far I have come and it amazes me. But the pain and loss still lingers on.
When I talk to people who have heard my story they look at me in awe. "Wow, I expected you to look awful after all the things you have been through, but you're a beautiful young woman." Or, "I cannot believe how strong you are. You're such an inspiration." These are some of the words I hear often. And in those moments it is absolutely crazy to me that my story has reached so many people, people in different countries and on opposite sides of the world, but I continue to go along with their unfiltered comments. Although it does not shock me anymore, there was a time when I could not believe some of the words that came out of peoples' mouths. In times of suffering most people just do not know what to say. As the one who has suffered, you quickly learn the phrases that set you off: Everything happens for a reason, You're an inspiration, God has a plan for you, Don't let the cancer win, Keep on fighting, and my list can go on and on. Sometimes you just want to hear, "Life sucks, and I don't know what's next for you."
But when I hear these phrases they want to hear me speak, so I'll say something like, "It's been hard, but I'm getting through it." And with every word that pours out of my mouth they find more and more reasons to praise me for what I have been through. I find myself faking my way through the conversation, telling them whatever they want to hear. I cannot stop. Adrenaline takes over and I start to portray this confident young woman. I then begin to appreciate this unrecognizable side of me, until I realize I am only giving them half the story. Because most people want to hear the stories of warriors and how they overcame unbearable circumstances, not stories of the days when you were too sick and frail to function wishing this disease would just finish you off and free you from the constant pain and suffering... Fighting back my true emotions, I quickly thank them for their prayers and walk away. If only they really knew...
If only they really knew how weak I really am sitting alone in my room with a pen in my hand and a book full of tears lying across my lap over the distorted scar that runs down my thigh reminding me that I'll never be normal again... Deep breath.
But I can't let them see this broken side of me...
So I smile and nod, Thank yous pour out of my mouth in routine, for this happens every week. And as they walk away, little by little, I begin to see what they see.
But still, they have no idea. Not a clue. Nobody does. So I continue to write...