Cancer: The Sum of Our Parts.

My name is Jeremy. I’m 41 years old. And I have cancer.

Cancer is a marathon, not a sprint. For those who have been following along, yes, I’ve had a birthday since my last post. A lot has happened since my last post — including surgery that removed a quarter of my right lung and one of my ribs. Meaning that the only thing that the doctors are concerned about is the “spot” on my spine.

Meaning, yes, I still have cancer. I still have not heard the words “in remission” or “cancer free”.

I have gone through so much — so many different procedures, medications, doctors; and I still have cancer.

Is that disheartening? A bit. I’m not gonna lie. Is it surprising? Not even in the slightest. This was what I was expecting, to be completely honest.

No war is fought with one battle. No one pill remedies it, no one procedure exercises it, no one doctor cures it. Cancer doesn’t have a simple solution. There’s no “one” treatment. It’s nothing like an episode of House or Grey’s Anatomy or… It’s as complex and varied as the person it’s trying to kill.

Because, make no bones about it — regardless of what stage or type of cancer you have — it’s trying to kill you. Which is why when I got the diagnosis, I looked the doctor dead in the eye and told him that I was going to beat it. Because there are only two options — it or me.

One thing I haven’t told anyone before now was that when I did get the news — when I did look that doctor in the eye and said what I said, I wasn’t scared. I definitely wasn’t as calm as I was portraying. I was mad. I was pissed that this thing had the audacity to completely take over my life. That it had the audacity to try and kill me when I have so much life left to live. In fact, I’m still mad. Which is why I’m still fighting.

I’m also mad at those it has stolen from us.

This past weekend I went to a memorial service for a friend. She was someone I grew up with. Way back when we lived in the same neighborhood as kids. We lost touch after I moved out and away, but still managed to see her in person one last time, some time ago.

She was always someone who I meant to keep in touch with — and did manage to do so. Just…not a lot and not that often. Honestly, it wasn’t until my diagnosis with cancer did we start talking a lot more. She was a total cheerleader for me and we rooted for each other to beat cancer.

Yet…well, cancer won. Stole someone else, way too soon.

And not a day goes by since her passing that I don’t wish that I had been better about keeping in touch.

She was only 33.

I lost another friend to cancer a couple years ago. She was someone that I had gone to high school with. Someone I had a class or two with. Like the other friend I mentioned, I had lost touch with her after high school, but reconnected over social media years later.

When she was diagnosed with colon cancer, it was already stage four. She went through so many different procedures. So many different doctors. So many different attempts to save her life. Ultimately, she passed away from it.

She was only 38.

I’ve lost others to cancer. Some I was much, much closer to than the two friends that I mentioned. Yet, there’s two reasons why I did:

1. They were “too young to get cancer”.
2. I thought I had more time to get back in touch with them and reconnect.

Both assumptions I was wrong about. A hard pill to swallow. And I know I’m far from being the only one who thought that they were “safe”.

While the title of this post is “the sum of our parts”, we are much, much more than that. While I still have cancer, that is not who I am as a person. While I have lost friends to cancer, the disease was not who they were, either. They were more than that — so much more than that. They had hopes. They had dreams. They laughed and sang and even got bored from time to time. They had hobbies and jobs. They had people that they loved. And, in turn, they were loved by others. Those who now have a massive hole in their lives where their loved ones once were.

They also ran that marathon. They gave it their all. They had those dark moments when they wanted to give up. They had those long nights where sleep would never come. They cried when it hurt; but they also cried when they were mad at the fact that they hurt.

They weren’t just withering husks in a hospital bed. They were people. Though they suffered, they also lived. They were more than the sum of their parts. Even the damaged ones.