Cancer: One Year Later.
My name is Jeremy. I’m 41 years old. And I have cancer.
Tuesday, September 7th, 2021 is a day that will forever be a milestone for me. That was the day that I was diagnosed with stage 3-B testicular cancer. A day, a moment, a fateful journey to the ER that I thought was going to be a routine procedure that turned into anything but.
It was also the beginning of the most important fight of my life.
Before I continue, there is something that I wish to repeat: as far as I’m aware, cancer doesn’t run in my family. I’m not a smoker. I take relatively good care of my health (all things considered, of course). All the usual boxes that you would check when someone tells you that they have cancer are blank for me.
I’m repeating this to stress further than anyone can get cancer.
Anyone.
I’ve been thinking a lot this past week about just what I would say in this particular post. What does one say when they’ve fought the hard fight against their own bodies? Just how does one reflect upon what can easily be considered the worst moment of their life? How do you look back without inflicting further trauma upon yourself?
The answer, just as it is with many of life’s toughest and most puzzling questions, isn’t an easy one. To be completely honest, I’m just letting my fingers do the walking across the keyboard right now. Hoping to fully encapsulate the turmoil of it all.
Actually, that is a fantastic topic to bring up: turmoil. Because that’s what cancer is. Turmoil. Chaos. Tribulation. A white-water rapids journey into the unknown. One that you have zero guarantee that you’re going to survive.
And yet, thus far, I have.
In the span of…five months (with January and most of February being a respite), I was in and out of the hospital. I’ve had three surgeries (counting the chemo port that they put in the day after my diagnosis), fourteen days of radiation (a bit over two weeks, with a break because I had to have a rather major and important surgery), and four full rounds of in-patient chemotherapy. The VIP treatment, to be precise. I lost a testicle, a rib, a good chunk of my right lung, and all of the hair on my head. Thankfully the hair came back.
There were doctors visits, injections, pills (so, so, so many pills), and even blood transfusions towards the end. I have given blood, sweat, and tears to cancer. I have uncontrollably vomited on at least one occasion. I collapsed multiple times and had to be brought back to consciousness. I have looked death in the face.
And yes, thus far, I live.
I’m not brave. I’m just letting you know that now. I’m not brave — I’m stubborn. The very moment I got my diagnosis, I was given two decisions: fight and live or give up and die. No middle ground. No grey areas. Black and white. Live or die.
I chose to live. I choose to live.
I still choose to live. And it is a decision I have had to commit and recommit to every single day for a year now. It is something that you have to do time and time again. And, I promise you, from the core of my being, it is in no way, shape or form, a decision you can let slide. It is not something you can just change your mind on.
Even when, no, especially when you’re going the hard days. That is when the decision to fight is the most important. The moment that decision starts to shift is the moment that your health follows suit.
People stronger than me, smarter than me, braver than me, better than me have been claimed by cancer. I lost a childhood friend earlier this year to cancer. Like a tornado, once it’s on the warpath, there isn’t much you can do about it. A high school friend of mine who was claimed by colon cancer fought for years before she finally passed away. I’m not trying to discourage those out there reading this who have also gotten the diagnosis, but to fully stress the reality of it all.
The sole reason why you are reading these words is that my time wasn’t up. I have fought for every grain in the hourglass of my life since I got the news. But there are those out there who I know will not be as fortunate as I am. Just as there are some houses that are damaged by a tornado without being fully destroyed.
I am also not the only one on the battlefield, either. My girlfriend made the same decision to fight this thing tooth and nail the same day that I did. We made a pact, a promise in the ER. One that is still iron clad to this day. I could not have done this without her. I would not have survived without her. I would fight and she would give me all the ammunition I would need to beat this. She has been by my side through every step. She had taken me to countless appointments, kept my meds straight, nursed me back to health time and time again, and even picked me up off the bathroom floor when I collapsed for the last time.
I would not be alive if it wasn’t for her.
I know that I am truly lucky and fortunate to have her.
I also know that there are far too many people who are facing cancer alone.
You are not alone.
Read that again:
You are not alone.
I am fortunate to have a phenomenal girlfriend. I am fortunate to have a phenomenal support structure of friends who would and have gone to bat for me. I know I am, for lack a better word, blessed.
I also know that there are those who aren’t as lucky as I am.
Which is why I am stressing this so hard: no matter what, you are not alone.
I am here beside you in the trenches. Fighting. Crying. Getting angry at the injustice of it all.
You are not alone.
