Cancer: A True Story.

This is me. This is what cancer looks like.

I’m going to open this post with three truths: My name is Jeremy. I turned 40 this January. I have cancer.

I have cancer. I have testicular cancer that spread to my right lung and is attacking my spine. It started manifesting last year, but I pushed it off as a result of a stupid injury (and, yes, the injury was truly stupid) and didn’t go to the hospital because we were in the middle of a spike in the pandemic and I didn’t want to risk it.

I should have risked it.

I should have gone to the hospital when the swelling never went away.

I didn’t.

That’s on me.

I have cancer. Testicular cancer. One of the “highly treatable” ones. That’s the good news. That’s great news. That’s news I’ve been carrying with me and holding on to and clutching close to my chest.

Yes, it means that (massive spoiler alert because I only got the news today) that they’re going to be removing my left testicle this coming Monday. As in, three days from now. They’re going to be able to save the right testicle (miracles are strange, but take them where you get them), so at least there’s that. There was talk of having my on testosterone and well, a ton of stuff. But, bottom line, I’m in good hands and I have the utmost faith and confidence in this team of medical professionals.

I have cancer. And I’m going to beat it. Plain and simple. Even when I got the news — when I got the confirmation of all I suspected, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m going to beat this. I even told the doctor who gave me the news that I’m going to beat this.

Because I’m going to beat this.

Plain and simple.

There are two options: Either cancer wins or I do.

Which means there is one option: I win.

And I win by beating cancer.

I’m going to beat this.

I have cancer. And if this post seems scatterbrained, it’s only a fraction of what’s been going on inside my head. Partially could be the plethora of meds I’m on now. A big part is that the last two weeks have been a giant info dump that I can’t even imagine to process.

And, yes, I just said two weeks. I was diagnosed with cancer on September 7th. This all is fresh. This all is new. And this all is BIG.

And, let me tell you, any amount of this would be a crazy amount to process. So, I’m forgiving myself for not being 100% there. Which, anyone who knows me, this is big, in and of itself. And I’m supremely grateful that there are those in my life who are also taking this in stride. Or, I pray they are, any way. They seem to be, any way.

I have cancer. And I admittedly been having “oh shit, I have cancer” moments. Not all the time. They’re sneaky and like to pop up from time to time. Always out of the blue. It’s a bit of panic and feeling overwhelmed. It’s almost brought me to tears a few times. But, again, blessing, they’re always short. Just brief moments that rock me and then I move on.

Because I have to move on. Not to “be strong” or any such nonsense. But because these moments are only supposed to be moments and dwelling on them will crush me. And I can’t afford that. I have cancer to fight. That’s a battle I need to win. And that is my focus.

I have cancer. And I will survive cancer. But my life has changed forever. My priorities have changed forever. I’m already not the person I was two weeks ago — and that’s a good thing. This “new” me is stronger. This “new” me finally sees the priorities that have been beating me over the head for…decades.

Life is short. Cancer showed me that. The fire has been lit. And it would be a complete waste of this massive life event to throw all of that away. So I won’t.

This also has shown me the priorities and opinions of others. Loud and clear. And I have zero room in my life for those who will put myself in danger while I go through this. Whether it be physically, mentally, emotionally, all of the above. I cannot risk my life due to the judgement of others. Period.

Especially since I’ll be going through chemo. Soon. Where a cold could put me in the hospital and the flu could kill me. Would kill me. The last thing I need is to die from a preventative disease while fighting off an unpreventable one.

I have cancer. I have cancer that spread to my right lung. But I don’t smoke. Nor do I have a family history of cancer. Really, all the things you’d expect — didn’t happen.

And it doesn’t matter, because cancer doesn’t care about any of that. Children get it. Famous athletes get it. Literally anyone can get cancer.

Literally. Anyone.

I have cancer. But I am not cancer. This is an event in my life. This is not who I am. This is a defining moment in my life. But it is not THE defining moment of my life.

I’m a writer. That is who I am. Cancer is just source material. Just like a terrible job or a brutal breakup. A messy milestone of material, but fodder, nonetheless. Because it would be a waste to let an “opportunity” like this to go to waste.

I’m a writer. That is my definition of me.

My name is Jeremy. I am 40 years old. I have cancer. And I’m going to win.