The diagnosis.
The chemo.
The mastectomy.
The hormone therapy.
The synthetic menopause.
The hot flashes.
The neuropathy.
The bone decalcification.
The exhaustion.
The rehab program.
The failed reintegration program.
The dismissal.
The benefits paperwork.
Two years in — and still no finish line in sight.
Cancer-free? Yes. Free from cancer? Probably never.
For a long time it felt like falling.
Falling fast.
Falling deep.
Like tumbling into a black hole, where time slows down but the darkness never ends.
For almost a year and a half now, we’ve been slowly finding our way back to the light. Step by step. Breath by breath. But the weight is heavy. Not just mentally. Physically, too. I still feel it every day — the weight on my shoulders, the tension in my lower back. The numbing of my emotions is the unfortunate result of yet another side effect stacked on a side effect, each pill handed over like a band-aid for a wound that won’t close. Another prescription for another symptom, in an endless loop.
I don’t want to grow bitter. I don’t want to grow cold. But watching my wife go through pain, exhaustion, frustration and disappointment — over and over again — is crushing. I would have taken it on myself in a heartbeat. But that was never a choice. So I carry the weight I was given. And yet… even in all this turmoil, so much has changed — surprisingly, in positive ways.
Being home more means I am with my family more.
Because tomorrow is not guaranteed, I live more in the now.
Chasing ambitions has been replaced with being content with what I already have.
Bad habits made space for better ones:
Scrolling turned into making.
Streaming turned into reading.
Less distraction, more depth.
Less talking, more listening.
Less knowing, more learning.
Less closing off, more opening up.
Exactly two years ago, my wife and I said to each other: No matter how hard it gets, we have to keep looking for silver linings. Even in the dark 🔦
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