Originally Published On: Elephants & Tea
August 9, 2023
I would often get the question: “what was the hardest part about having cancer?” And I never really knew how to answer that. Not because I didn’t have an answer in mind, but because I didn’t think it was the answer people were expecting of me. Or wanted from me. See, receiving the diagnosis, processing the information, that went fairly smoothly. Going through the treatments, taking the medication, that was fine. These were all things that I expected, anticipated. I’d seen the movies, heard the stories. I thought I could handle it. And I managed to, yes.
What I struggled with was the loneliness.
Cancer came as a godsend. I don’t say that lightly. I say that as someone who, prior to receiving the official diagnosis, was slowly detaching herself from everyday life. It was mostly unconscious, to be fair. But it was in response to my body failing me. It was months of looking into the mirror, watching my health and well-being deteriorate before my eyes. I became a shell of the person I’d once been. I shared my reflection with a woman I didn’t recognize.
And for a long time, I was the only person who saw it.
Those months were the hardest. The loneliest for me. Because superficially, I was mostly the same. Maybe I looked more tired. A little more lean. Less social, perhaps. Moodier. But I knew. I knew something was wrong, felt it in my bones, and I didn’t have anyone around me to see it. To believe me. Having my concerns brushed off or put aside. Saying that university was getting to me, I should just relax, calm down. I’m fine. It’s okay. I’m young too, aren’t I? There couldn’t possibly be something wrong.
It was only late at night, when the rest of my family had gone to bed, and I’d be left alone with only my thoughts for company, that I allowed myself to take an honest breath. To sit in my sickness. Admit to myself that it’s hard, it’s tiring, trying to find the energy within myself to not only prove to others that things are fine, but also trick myself into believing it. It’s not enough if others believe it. I also had to believe the lie. To comfort others.
I felt a special kind of vindication, receiving my diagnosis. I wasn’t happy. Not thankful. Vindicated. It was proof. Finally. Look guys! Look. There really was something wrong with me. You didn’t believe me, none of you did, but I knew it. I knew it was true. It’s not that I wanted cancer. Nobody wants to be sick. I just wanted answers. I wanted the truth.
I wanted people to believe me.
Things changed after that. I was taken more seriously. My family tried their best to accommodate me and my sickness. I love them for that. I understand, I really do, that urge to discount what you cannot see, or hear, or feel yourself. And though I admit that a part of me will always feel a little bitter that they didn’t initially believe me, I’m incredibly grateful for how they’ve stood by me since.
It is my family who made all the difference in my cancer journey. My friends. All the doctors and nurses. The community that arose to support me when I couldn’t help myself. I marvel at their strength and compassion. Their sympathy. All of the sacrifices they made for me. They weren’t a cure to the loneliness. That’s not something you can cure. It’s a constant. Something that you can fall victim to when you’re feeling low, insecure. Something that catches you off-guard and takes you breath away. But where they might not cure this ache, they do soothe it. Help my soul. Bring me a kind of peace.
Cancer was hard, yes. The loneliness was harder though. But I believe I’m a better person because of it. I think back on those nights, sat with my sickness, convincing myself to convince others that I’m okay, weary of what the next day would bring, and I want to hold that girl. I want to tell her that those moments of vulnerability and hurt would eventually pass, would eventually make her stronger. Would help her become the woman she is today. One that she can be proud of.
“What was the hardest part of having cancer?”
The loneliness.
But with the right people, you’ll make it through. And while they won’t cure the pain, they’ll soothe your soul.
Janessa Alexis 