Cancer, the pursuant specter
Breaking its grip in permanence
If you really love something, put your attention there. Water, expose to sunlight and give fresh air. With time and trust, even in the harshest environments, something amazing will grow.
This is a story of a seed.
On September 23rd, 2005, as a teen, I went through an experience I’ve always been open about, but I’ve never been personally accepting of. I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer called Burkitt Lymphoma; as I’ve grown older it’s inadvertently become the lens through which I experience life. As the remission milestones passed, though, it became less of an active threat and more of a passive one. An ever-present ache; a frayed thread of my tapestry.
Even being considered “a survivor”, you’re never really through with that experience. It never leaves you.
Over time, the memory of cancer has become a demon that occasionally has fits of bravado. A demon that, despite my efforts, follows me around and constantly reminds me that a whole eternity existed before me, and a whole eternity will inevitably exist after me.
As demons do, the lingering memory of cancer plays tricks on my mind every day. Tiny nuanced things shape-shift to serve as reminders of its presence, and of mortality.
For example, the word ‘cancel’ shape-shifts into ‘cancer’ every time I see it — which happens to be hundreds of times a day when you work as a designer. Dozens of other triggers exist, hiding in margins of daily life.
And yet, the seed grew roots.
The week of September 23rd specifically, I’ve always had vivid flashbacks to a certain sequence of events that took place. My parents crying during my diagnosis. The taste of chemotherapy coursing through my veins. My hair falling out. Shaving my head above the incredibly short pediatric hospital sink. Looking down and seeing my broviac — a large vein catheter that was installed in the center of my chest — for the first time. Falling down with my I.V pole when trying to stand. Blacking out during a CT scan.
It’s called anniversary syndrome, and it’s an alarmingly common experience for anyone who’s gone through a traumatic event.
The difficulty of separating myself from those memories is further reinforced by my discovery of a passion for design in that same hospital bed. In short, I noticed the bed controls used only icons on the buttons; this sent me down an inquisitive rabbit hole and eventually turned into my current career.
Most mornings, before getting out of bed, I think about the positives in life. Things like having a pulse. The roof over my head. The fact I lost the biological lottery with a potentially fatal illness; but happened to win the geographic lottery by being born in a country and to a family both well equipped to fight it.
A seed no more.
Every year, September 1st marks the start of these memories, which usually last beyond the month until my birthday on October 5th.
I’ve always felt that the memory of cancer was impervious to my fight against it. My fists passing through it — a pursuant specter, a constant hum. For the last twelve years I’ve been running from this aggressor, throwing things in its path to occupy it. I’d focus on creating things with such tireless prolificacy that I’d simply have no time to worry about mortality.
This year, however, was — and is — different.
This was the year I accepted that the eternity before me was just fine, and the inevitable eternity after me will be fine as well.
This was the year I realized that most of my heroes, mentors, and idols have crossed that fateful threshold — and if they can do it then so can I.
Today, September 1st, marks the first September in twelve years that the memory of cancer lost its grip on me. I’ve thanked it for all of its lessons; of kindness and compassion, of tolerance and optimism. It’s no longer an enemy to deny.
Back in high school, I set up a calendar reminder for every day at noon until 50 years after my diagnosis. Twelve years on, it reads, “The future is what you make of it”. Not what painful memories make of it. Not what paranoia makes of it. Not what mortality makes of it.
The future is what you make of it.
❤
