I have cancer.
But I am NOT cancer.
Cancer is a part of my life at the moment, but it doesn’t define me.
I’m a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a friend. I’m a reader, a writer, a music lover. I adore dancing in my kitchen like the white girl with no rhythm that I am. love to laugh and sing off-key at the top of my lungs. I used to love coffee until chemo ruined that for me, I still love wine, but no longer drink it. I’m still me, I just happen to also have cancer.
My daily routine is at the mercy of doctors’ appointments, lab work, tests, and procedures. My outings are subject to white blood counts, and my meals are driven by cravings and aversions. This is my life at the moment, but it is not who I am.
I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t scare me at times, but I’d also be lying if I said I let it dictate anything beyond what is absolutely necessary. I don’t dwell on it, and when I’m feeling good, like today, I forget my boob is trying to kill me.
I have cancer, but cancer is not me.