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They confirmed it Thursday morning: colon cancer. Just a week earlier, I had awakened from anesthesia to find my doctor looking directly at me. All I could hear was the word “tumor.” It’s challenging to express the sensation that envelops you upon hearing such news. It descends upon you, heavy and suffocating. I felt as if I were both floating and plummeting, though perhaps the anesthesia was still affecting me. My breath hitched in my throat, reminiscent of the moment during the CT scan when the mechanical voice instructed me to “hold your breath.” I wished I had that voice in the recovery room, as the next command was to breathe.
I had been anxious about this. I’m young—just thirty-seven—but I had sensed something amiss for several months. Many believed it to be hemorrhoids. “You’re too young,” some said. “You’re too pretty,” others remarked. As if illness discriminates based on age or appearance. Cancer shows no favor.
My first encounter with illness was at the age of seven. I was jolted awake by the sensation of needles and searing pain. I attempted to leap from my bed, but my body wouldn’t respond. I felt trapped under the blistering cotton sheets. After spending over a month in the hospital, doctors suspected rheumatic fever, but they couldn’t explain why it hadn’t taken my life.
There’s a strange familiarity in the unsettling nature of disease. This profound uncertainty and paralyzing fear strike hard. Yet, so much is different this time: I’m a mother and a wife; others rely on me, and I live for them. I’m not lying in a hospital bed with cartoons on in the background, trying to sneak cookies from the kitchen. Instead, I’m on my couch with a baby monitor nearby and my dog curled up at my feet, pondering just how difficult this journey will be.
It’s significant that I am contemplating how hard this will be rather than how much time I have left with my husband and son. That latter thought has consumed me for most of the past week, leaving me devastated and tear-stained in my husband’s arms, who is unwavering in his support. He is my anchor amidst this storm.
I am frightened and overwhelmed. Yet, it’s hard to determine whether it’s the fear or the outpouring of kindness that has affected me more. When I awoke in the hospital, my doctor gently placed her hand on my arm and calmly informed me of her findings. She didn’t sugarcoat anything, nor did she waver in her certainty. She commended me for trusting my instincts and assured me that I would be okay (a notion I doubted), gently rubbing my arm as she affirmed that I had done everything right. That evening, after picking up our son from school, I collapsed into my husband’s embrace and wept with fear.
The next morning, I received a phone call from Laura, a nurse at the endoscopy center who had heard about my case. My doctor had asked Laura to reach out because she is eleven years a colon cancer survivor. Laura offered to accompany me on my cancer journey, and I sobbed after hanging up. I cried from fear but also from gratitude.
When the insurance company called to confirm my CT scan, which was scheduled less than 28 hours after the colonoscopy, I expressed my deep appreciation for having good insurance, and the woman on the line cried too. She apologized for being unprofessional, and I apologized for not keeping my composure. We both ended up shedding tears together. She envisioned my face surrounded by light, and I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me again.
It seems you often don’t recognize the divine until you can’t help but see it everywhere. I see it now—in friends reaching out, in the voices of strangers, and in the hugs of new acquaintances. This experience is terrifying, yet there is profound beauty in how we can support one another when it’s most needed.
I can’t predict what lies ahead. I don’t know how much of this illness is within me, nor what kind of treatment awaits. However, I feel myself transitioning from fear to facing facts, ready to put my head down, listen to the doctors, and tackle this challenge. With my incredible community rallying around me, I know I will rise, even if I stumble along the way.
In my first week, I’ve learned three key lessons:
- Crying is less damaging to makeup when it’s only applied to the upper eyelids.
- Destiny’s Child and Christina Aguilera have made a triumphant return to my playlist with “Survivor” and “Fighter,” and I’m all for it.
- Kindness is ubiquitous and strong enough to lift you from the depths of despair if you just reach out for it.
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In summary, my journey with colon cancer has been filled with fear and uncertainty, but it has also revealed the incredible kindness of those around me. I’m determined to face whatever lies ahead, supported by my family and community.