Someone I love has cancer.
I know I’m not special. Neither is he. People get diagnosed with cancer every day—young, old—it doesn’t matter. Cancer doesn’t discriminate.
When you’re in your 20s, it is the furthest thing from your mind. And although you hear about it almost mercilessly—someone always seems to be going through it—it rarely touches you. I always imagined that I’d start dealing with my loved ones getting cancer 40 years from now, while we’re all happily living in a spunky beachfront retirement community in sunny Florida. Forty years from now seems like a good time. We’ll all have had a good run by then.
But not at 29. The poison we take when we’re young, and our faith in invincibility notwithstanding, 29 still isn’t right. Young people should not get sick and die.
I dreamed of him last night. And dreams don’t mean anything, I know that. Typically they’re a nonsensical jumble of confusion, comedy, fear, or a combination of all three. Usually I’m either running from ludicrous monsters or trying to talk to my dead grandmother. I’ve never subscribed to the theory that they are anything but the unconscious involuntarily rambling throughout the night, but when they grab you, they hold on tight.
He came with me on my unconscious journey, traveling back in time to my hometown and my childhood. I showed him where I grew up—he met my dad before he became a quadriplegic, he toured our modest home, and even came with me to class at my elementary school.
Throughout this trip we took together, he somehow managed to remind me about a lot of things I’ve forgotten in my jaded 28 years: No matter how much I resent it, I came from somewhere. Even though he’s not the man he used to be, he’s still my dad. Though we never had much, we always had a roof over our heads. And sure, they were untouchable then, but the cool kids don’t stay that way for very long.
I’m aware that a correlation between his illness and my dream doesn’t truly exist, but the comfort of an illusory significance hasn’t left me all morning. It’s cliché, but this morning I woke up reminded of what really matters.
He was the one behind the impetus to revive this silly blog that I am too lazy and uninspired to keep up. But he is everywhere in it, he is throughout it. We wanted so badly for one another to succeed—to feel healthy, to feel well. Chronic pain plagued him nearly every waking moment, but his encouragement and optimism never wavered. He has always believed in me, and believed that together we could do anything.
I want so badly to believe that now. That together, somehow we are strong enough to overcome his illness. My life is unimaginable without him.
I’m sorry that this entry wasn’t typical—it didn’t include funny pictures, or comedy that I ripped off from somewhere else. There was no sarcasm or amusing self-deprecation. I want to say that I now have renewed vigor and enthusiasm in becoming fit and healthy. I want to announce that my friend’s cancer has given me the drive to succeed for the both of us.
But I don’t, and it doesn’t.
I’m angry, sad and scared. I’m eating a lot of pizza. I’m taking frequent naps instead of doing sit-ups. The gym is the last place I want to be and I can’t imagine meeting my goals without him there, meeting his own alongside me.
Someone I love has cancer and this entire blog has become everything that I despise about myself.
I don’t have cancer, but I have a million other things to complain about.
I hope he forgives me for that.
