In my post-treatment life, I still go through phases where all I want to do is live in a world of cancer.
Even while it is happening, it doesn’t quite make sense to me.
I actively choose to watch movies where a young person being diagnosed with cancer is the main storyline. I devour memoirs and podcasts about folks who have had their lives turned upside down by the disease, even when I know the ending isn’t going to be a happy one. I read stories of cancer and loss on Instagram, almost comforted by their familiarity.
Is this a form of self-induced punishment?
You would think that I would find these stories off-putting, if not terrifying. You would think that I would want to fill my life up with stories of escapism. You would think I would want to put everything cancer related into a box, wrap it up in duct tape, and hide it under my bed for a hundred years.
For months at a time, that is what happens. Cancer barely crosses my mind – it is like an echo from a previous life that I am faintly aware of, but doesn’t distract me. But other times, it is all I want to think about. And not in what I would describe as an anxious way; but weirdly, in a fascinating & comforting one.