Dear Cancer

Dear Cancer, Do You Remember Me?

Dear Cancer,

I wish I could start with, “Hello old friend, and thank you for all the ways you’ve shaped my growth,” as I have written before, but today that feels like a lie. One thing I’ve lost the ability to do is lie to protect you. Today I am still grieving and angry. Today I can’t see past all you have taken from me.

Can you even remember me? You took my mother in ‘88 when I was just a kid, and yet I thanked you. I thought my debt had been paid. You taught me to love every day, not just on good days, and I thanked you.

Dear Cancer, You Wanted to be My Only Friend

Hello Cancer,

I will never forget the day that we formally met. Your bad reputation had preceded you, of course. You had made a teasing visit in my life a couple of years prior, just to let me know that your presence was indeed a reality. You had visited a couple of other people in my life as well and I knew that you were going to be tough to stand up to. I vividly remember the doctor telling me as gently as he could that you had decided to move in, finding my ovaries to be a suitable place to set up your residence. I heard his words and then I went numb.

Dear Cancer, You Don’t Get Any of the Credit!

Dear Cancer,

I am so furious with you and I hate you in a way that words cannot even begin to describe! You came into my life at such an early age, and to say you completely changed my life honestly feels like an understatement. You totally turned my world upside down and you’ve taken so much from me. You have robbed me of so many of the pleasures and experiences of childhood and adolescence. You’ve taken my balance, wreaked havoc on my motor skills, zapped my energy, and caused me so much pain during our journey together, not to mention the pain and heartache you have caused my friends and family.

Cancer Is About to Be KO’d

Hello Cancer,

I see you tried to knock me out, but sorry, I’ve got too much to live for! My kids and my wife support me so much that you don’t stand a chance inside me. I’m a huge Rocky fan, which motivates me to fight you harder, and I tell myself each and every day to keep punching.

Dear Cancer, Why am I Still Here?

Dear Cancer,

You thought you were going to take me out, but I am still here. Twelve years ago, when the doctors finally found you, I will admit you did have me there for a second (insert nervous laugh). The doctors were perplexed—they were not sure what they were looking for, and it took a painful six months to even get diagnosed. The doctor said, “You have Multiple Myeloma at 29 years old.”

Dear Cancer, You Ruined So Much for Me

Dear Cancer,

I am so mad some days about why I don’t have an ordinary life. When I was diagnosed, I was only 33 and my babies were not even 9 months old.

You robbed me of so many fragile memories I have of my babies. You robbed me of their first birthday—I had to be at chemo instead of celebrating. Weekends in the hospital, months where I didn’t get to pick them up because of surgical restrictions.

Dear Cancer, You Are Light and Dark

Dear Cancer,

Twice you’ve come knocking at my door.
The first time I was only 36 and you snuck up on me,
slow growing, but caught early
in my endometrial lining
but the price to pay was total hysterectomy and the inability to have any more children.

Dear Cancer, You Were Never Invited

Dear Cancer,

A year ago you had the audacity to just storm into my life. You were never invited and you were definitely not expected. You just came in anyway. You have such nerve. Who does that? You have been really tough on me, but I tried to be tougher.

Dear Cancer, Go to Hell

Dear Cancer,

Youza B. F you. Go to hell.

Hope you die first,
Sophie

Dear Cancer, I’m Living Anyway

Dear Cancer, 

I knew we would meet one day. I can’t explain it, and others can’t understand, but you apparently knew too. You were the thing I was most afraid of, next to airplanes. When my surgeon told me you had arrived, I asked if my constant worry had manifested you into reality. He said he doesn’t believe in that, but if it were true, I could also manifest my way out of this. My first cancer lesson on perspective.