The C Word Nobody Wants To Hear

Photo by Angiola Harry on Unsplash

It was right after my miscarriage. I mean, right after. 2019. I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing. It was immediately after that the universe looked at my grief and said, “Yeah, let’s go ahead and pile it on and see how long it is before she snaps.”

The lump was small at first. I told myself it was a clogged milk duct or maybe a cyst. I gave it a couple of weeks. Then a month. Then it morphed into this weird, angry lima bean. Lumpy. Misshapen. Definitely not a milk duct.

I went to the doctor because, of course, I did. I’m not a complete disaster. They poked and prodded, then said the word: biopsy. My partner was with me, pacing like a dog that knew the rolling thunder was coming. They brought him into the room when they gave the not-official-yet-but-let’s-not-kid-ourselves diagnosis. The radiologist was talking about blood flow to the mass, which sounded like some kind of horror movie physiology. I heard the words but didn’t really hear them. It was like I was at the bottom of a pool and hearing people talking above me out of the water.

Cancer. Probably.

They said they’d call in a few days to confirm. I waited, cracking my knuckles, pulling out grey hairs, and making myself busier than I needed to be. When they finally did call, and confirmed every fear and scenario I had been running through in my mind. Cancer… Yes, it was. The blood was draining from my face while I tried to hold the phone, even though I wanted to hang up. I didn’t want to hear the we’re so sorry, or you have options. I didn’t hang up, though. I stayed on the phone numb, scared, and upset listening to the next steps and all the “options” which in modern medicine they believe in two options: chemo or death… Take your pick.

My partner’s brother had died of cancer just the year before. That was the part that made it really hit him like a truck. It’s never a word that lands gently on anyone. It didn’t land gently on either of us, but it landed.. No crash into him. I was trying to breathe, and he was trying not to panic.

Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash

Meanwhile, we had an eight-year-old son at home who still needed dinner and clean socks and to be told to take a bath, and even though I was speeding straight into the kind of sadness that felt like being punched repeatedly in the gut. Depression. That’s what they call it. But for me, it was more like grief for the version of my life I thought I still had time for.

And somehow, because I’m either stubborn or delusional, I was still trying to write code and build AI projects that could actually help people. Make something good come out of all of this, because if I’m going to die (and let’s face it, I am… Actually, we all are, I’m just going before everyone else), I’d rather spend the time building memories, and things I am remembered for rather than crumbling in to depression and lay on the floor curling in to a sad whimpering ball.

Cancer doesn’t care, though. You can be tired or scared or trying to raise a decent human who still thinks fart and poop jokes are comedy gold. It doesn’t care if you’ve got a half-written program that might actually help someone with accessibility issues (for free instead of charging them their dignity), or if you just want one more night where your body feels like your own.

But I care. So I keep going.

I keep programming one line of code, one awkward tween hug, one doctor’s appointment at a time.

The oncologist had laid out the treatment plan (my treatment plan) like it was some kind of five-star menu.

Here’s your starter: surgery. Main course? Chemo. Radiation on the side. And let’s not forget dessert, hormone therapy for the rest of your damn life.

I listened. Nodded. Let them finish the pitch.

And then I said no. They looked at me like I was a crazy woman. So, I said, “No, chemo.”

They just nodded, scheduled the surgery, and I left. They probably thought they could talk me into it later, but I’d seen what chemo did to people, and I didn’t want that to happen to me. The ghosting of the skin. The nausea that never quits. The weeks… Sometimes, months of being technically alive but completely absent. And for what? A few extra months of lying on the couch while your kid watches you disappear from the inside out?

That was my No. I wasn’t doing that. No again to the chemo. No again to becoming a ghost in my own body. No again to not being me ever again.

I didn’t say no because I’m brave. I did it because I’m a person, dammit. I’d rather die with dignity than become a shadow of the past. We’ve all heard the saying “My body. My choice.” Yeah, doctors don’t respect you when you say that to them about cancer. They’ll try to guilt you. They’ll try to make you. They even tried to give me a “portal” even though I didn’t want one. I was like, “I’m not dead yet, and if you don’t want a lawsuit, you won’t ask me again.”

Because this is my body, my brain, and dammit, it’s still my choice. If cancer is going to kill me, then it’ll have to do it while I’m still building things. Still showing up to the weird elementary school plays, and to the packed middle school concerts. Still walking downtown to buy a Venus flytrap at the plant festival with my kid. Still writing code late at night while the house is quiet and the world feels just a little more fixable, or at least manageable.

People don’t always get it. Quite a few tried to change my mind, told me I was selfish, naive, or just plain scared. Scared of what? Dying? We all are I imagine, but most of us don’t know how long we have. That is something I never thought about until cancer showed up, kicked in the door, and destroyed any hopes for the future.

The fact of the matter is, I am scared, but I’m also thinking clearly, which is a luxury most people living with cancer don’t have. Most other survivors or fighters (like me, but I don’t consider myself a fighter) don’t have that option. The medical community has pumped them so full of chemicals that they don’t even know what day it is or sometimes even where they are. To me, that’s much sadder than the way I am doing this. One foot in front of the other… One day at a time. Because this is the only life I’ve got. So, excuse me, Mr. Doctor Man, if I don’t want to waste it in fluorescent-lit infusion rooms, trading pain for more pain, and calling it hope.

Photo by Ronak Valobobhai on Unsplash

I’ll take the days I have and live them loud. Laugh at dumb jokes. Keep loving my crazy partner who keeps me laughing and talking even when I’m starting to collapse. The one person in the world who believes there’s still hope to hold on to, even when I think all hope is lost. I’ll keep building things that might outlive me. Maybe even teach my kid how to write Python before I go.

There are moments (more than I like to admit) when the fear hits like a punch to the throat. I think about missing his graduation. His first heartbreak. The dumb tattoos he’ll probably get. I think about all the lines of code I’ll never finish. The projects I’ll never get to ship. The ideas that might die with me.

But then he walks into the kitchen asking if grilled cheese counts as dinner again, and I say yes, because it does. And we eat. And I tell him about neural networks while he tells me about some kid at school who farted during math class. And for a minute, it all feels okay.

I’m not surviving. I’m living.

And I’m dying on my own terms.