I don’t know what to call this… Random musings of a cancer survivor? We’ll go with that…

From left: Lucia (at 18); Tracy (on her 16th birthday); Aunt Pat (just shy of 50) and me (just shy of 4) being the smiley, little shit I continue to be. Why yes, it was 1988, was it the lamp or the couch that gave it away? A big thank you to my mom who gave this to me on my 38th birthday a few weeks ago who thought I’d like to have it. I do. It lives on my desk now. Thank you.

It’s been a weird year.

Last year was all illness, gratefulness and WTF now? 

This year was a lot of going through the motions. Getting back on my feet. Learning how to just be again. How to parent. How to work. How to live. How how how. 

Cancer has taught me a lot. Not just mine. But the ones I love. I’ve lost a lot of people to it. I lost another this year. In a post last year, or maybe the beginning of this year (time has lost all meaning) I mentioned a friend and their family and that their father was sick. It was Eden. And we’ve since lost her dad, Brian. Six months yesterday. I loved that man. I love that family. They’re my family. His funeral was the first one I’ve been to since I was diagnosed and went through treatment and recovered. It was a beautiful celebration of a beautiful man. The flowers were perfect. The speeches were heartfelt. The love was palpable. 

We lost him to cancer. 

I hate cancer. But, I love the things that it’s taught me. 

Life is short. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Stop putting up with so much bullshit. I had boundaries before cancer. I’ve worked on them for decades now. 2024 will mark 20 years that I’ve been in (and out) of talk therapy. 20 years of working on my shit. Of owning it. Of trying to deal with it. Of trying to let some of it fucking go. 

A friend of mine when I was diagnosed, who went through their own cancer experience a few years before me, told me cancer would show me who was in my corner and who wasn’t. I didn’t think anyone wouldn’t be. But then, they didn’t show up. They didn’t check in. They didn’t care if I lived or died. It hurt. It continues to hurt. But it showed me. It brought me face-to-face with reality. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known someone, when they don’t show up when you have cancer, there’s no recovery from that. Those friendships are over. 

But out of the weeds grew new friendships. Out of the weeds brought me back to friendships that meant so much to me in my teens and twenties. Their hugs brought me back to life. Elliot, I’m looking at you. Seeing you at my “Yay, I’m alive party” and getting that big hug made me so so so happy. And Ashley, you sent me a text every day. Every single day. Sometimes just a little heart letting me know you were there. Not expecting a response. Just showing the fuck up. Thank you. All the texts and check-ins and follow ups made it so much easier. Made me feel like I was never, ever alone. From people I’ve stayed close with to acquaintances to every one in between, the love was greatly appreciated. 

In the cancer community some call these “grief tourists”. People you don’t hear from for years until you’re brought a cancer diagnosis. And you know what? I have a problem with that term.

Life is sticky. And hard. And busy. And exhausting. And we’re all just doing our fucking best to put one foot in front of another. I loved hearing from everyone. And the cards. And texts. And Facebook messages. And LOVE. That’s all I felt when I was down, love. Surrounded by it. By my insanely large and loving family. By my insanely large and loving group of friends. By people I encountered for years or just minutes. They checking in. They meant it. Every text. Every follow up. Every check in. They fucking meant. And I felt it. And I am deeply, deeply grateful. What’s so bad about a little extra love? We can all use some. Especially when we’re down and out.

I haven’t felt like writing in a while because I haven’t known what to say and the impetus hasn’t struck me. I don’t have the words for the struggle this year has been. Letting go of pieces of me that died in the fight. Learning what to do with the new cells that have formed. Learning that just because the cancer is gone and you’re grateful doesn’t mean you’re grateful in every moment. There’s this weird sense of I have to be content, fulfilled and glad in every moment because I’m lucky to be here. And fuck, I am. But it is so hard to grapple with being a human being. Because even now, I get sad and mad and angry and frustrated and it’s so hard not to beat myself up about it. How am I allowed to still have these emotions? Shouldn’t I only have gratefulness? Shouldn’t I only feel joy and contentment?

If I’m honest, I feel like I’ve been a shit friend this year. So many of you were so kind and helpful to me when I was sick. And I think of you every day. Yet I don’t always have the time (or lately, energy) to text to say I’m thinking of you. Work has been exceptionally busy (yep, going to have a better year than 2022 and I am super super super proud of myself) BUT I hoped to get in touch with everyone who said “let’s go for a walk” or “a coffee” or “anything I need” and I vowed to make good on those promises because last year, I didn’t feel well enough for that. And then I didn’t feel mentally up to it. And as the year ends, I’ve failed and even though I did something super human (fought my way back from the brink) I’m still human. And dammit, I want to do better than that. 

I want to be better than that. Know that it’s not lost on me that I haven’t been super present. Know that I think of every one of you all the time and I deeply hope and will find a way to put in the time to take you up on every walk and coffee and breakfast in 2023.

I started seeing a new therapist this year. I found her on Instagram through my old yoga philosophy teacher. Her page said she specialises in trauma, grief and cancer and in my head I went “whoaaaa check check check”. She integrates mindfulness and visualisation in her practice because she’s a certified yoga teacher, too. I messaged her right away and I my inkling was right, we’re a perfect fit. 

She’s teaching me things I didn’t know before. She’s teaching me it’s unrealistic to think that just because I survived means I won’t ever experience shitty feelings again. 

I weeped this morning at my desk. I’m still a little teary and swollen-eyed if I’m honest. Because I’m learning to love the Little Danielle that lives inside me. To hold her. And hug her. And be kind to her. To give her all the things I wish for my kids. All the things I try to do. And that work is hard. Confronting ourselves is hard. Being who we need to be is HARD.

Sometimes Clark can be a little difficult. Don’t get me wrong, he’s perfect to me and brings a sunshine to my life I didn’t know I was missing before him. His laugh and smile light up a room. His kindness and generosity is amazing to witness… but when he’s hungry he loses it and is bonkers and a pain in the ass. Because of this, sometimes Etta gets the shit end of the stick when Willis and I are pleading with Clark to just eat something so his brain will work properly. Last night she was showing me something she worked at at school. It was important to her and I was only half listening because we were trying to get Clark out the door for basketball. I knew in that moment I was failing. 

At bedtime, Etta and I spent a little extra time together. We talked for 45 minutes. Somehow we started talking about a bidet and what the hell it is so I told her it was for washing your butthole. And then we laughed because it’s so ridiculous. Later, I took her perfect little face in my hands and acknowledged that sometimes she gets the shit end of the stick. And that we know that and we love her and are doing our best and how sorry I am that she sometimes has to feel that way. 

I’m not saying this to toot my own horn, believe me. I’m saying this because it’s on my mind and it felt like a win in a year of strange bumps and road blocks.

I’ve learned a lot this year. Recovery is more important. Recovery is bigger than the intense moments we have. The fights with spouses and parents and siblings. The misunderstandings between friends and colleagues. Recovery is where it is. Does that mean we just have shit behaviour all the time and repent? No. It means we’re trying our best but we’re still going to fuck up. We will always fuck up. Because that’s what it means to be a human being. And cancer doesn’t change that shit all. There’s no damn unicorns to this story. There’s no unicorns in anyone’s story.

At the end of it, the people around you are still who they are. The people who want to change will. The people who don’t, won’t. And somewhere in the middle you have to rectify things with yourself. Look yourself in the mirror and acknowledge your short comings. And give yourself a pep talk that it is never too late to start over. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow is a chance to be a better you. Every moment is a chance to start over again.

On Sunday it will be my Aunt’s birthday. The one that left this world when I was 13. I weeped this morning at my desk because even though I’m knocking on 40 (I turned 38 two weeks ago) I still miss her. I still feel the grief in my heart for the me who lost her as a child. I still remember the way she smelled. I remember the way she made me feel safe. The way she made me feel like I was perfect just as I was. And as I move through the rest of however long I have left in this life, I hope I can start treating myself the way she treated me. The way she treated everyone. And if you’re reading this, I hope you can do that for you, too.

Thanks for listening. Thanks for reading. Thanks for taking this weird, wild, unexpected ride with me. 

***cue heart emoji*** – Danielle