I’m a lot less glum at 10-and-a-half-and-a-bit years after my cancer surgery than I was at 5 years, partly because I’m just in a better place, and partly because at 10 years the statistics make it easy to forget it ever happened. But.
Today someone did say something that triggered that old discomfort. There’s a pattern in certain circles to use the word “cancer” metaphorically, and I’ve never felt at ease with it.
I had the easiest possible version of cancer, but that still meant episodes where my heart started pounding for no reason, and night after night after night of waking up in existential fear. It meant subjecting my poor parents to an unexpected, unpleasant period of time wherein I needed help and support and yet was in no way inclined to accept it. It meant I had to laugh to fight back terror sometimes.
It still, apparently, means that sometimes someone will use the word cancer in an offhand fashion and I will get a twinge, a little reminder that the chance is never quite zero.
I’ve had friends diagnosed since then, and fight the hard battle, the chemo and the sickness and the weakness and the months of misery. I’ve had loved ones pass away from it. Those things stay with you, but – at least for me – they’re separate from what might be growing within.
I’ve never been one to “live every day like it’s your last”. I grew up with family around me who knew what it was to actually starve, and although I’m bad with money, being financially insecure is still one of a very few things that can actually stress me out to the point of illness. And my wife is good with money in a way that means I am always aware when I’m doing it poorly. I put off a lot of purchases for years. My budget goes forward nearly a decade, showing me when my various liabilities might finally go away. I fumble the pennies, but the dollars are very much in view.
But at ten years out, I do find myself thinking I need to make sure that I don’t let being responsible preclude being joyful.
Hope yer livin well, wherever you are.