the price of admission

I’ve said it before and I will continue saying it until I die: cancer sucks.

It affects every aspect of your life, and continues to do so even if you’re lucky enough to be in remission like me.

But the one thing that always helps me get through all the suckiness is the incredible community that I’ve come to know and love over this past year. Stupid Cancer, First Descents, Imerman Angels, 1 Million 4 Anna, the AYA Survivors & Fighters group at Children’s in Denver, and more: these groups of people from different backgrounds have been brought together because of cancer and are one of the best support groups imaginable.

Most of my cancer friends have only spent a few days with me in person, but I know that no matter what happens (if I have scanxiety, if I’m having trouble reintegrating into society, if I’m depressed, if I’m having drug side-effects that are annoying, if I’m feeling weak…) each and every one of them is willing to walk with me through the hard times.

And there are hard times. So far, my health has continued to improve. But almost every day, I am reminded that many of my friends are not so lucky.

I can’t tell you how many people in the young adult cancer community have passed away recently.
How many of my friends are mourning and hurting.
How many of them are still fighting.
How many of them are scared.
How many of them have to make those terrifying Facebook posts informing us that their tumors have grown, or that the chemo isn’t working, or that they need yet another surgery.

And I guess that’s the price of admission into ‘the best club that no sane person wants to join’ (as my friend Hitch and others have called it). To be understood in your deepest struggles, you have to love those who understand you. And when you love people in this club, you often get hurt.

Recently a friend of mine announced that her tumors have grown and she wasn’t sure what her next step was. I thought of how devastated and worried she would be for herself and for her children. She is one of the most caring, charismatic, fun people I’ve ever met, and she is struggling with terminal cancer.

I read her Facebook post right before a class and had to call my mom and cry for a few minutes. Because it’s not fair. (And no, no one ever said life would be fair, but that doesn’t mean we have to be stoic in the face of injustices.) I could hardly pay attention in class; I couldn’t stop thinking about all the friends and family I’d lost to cancer, and all the friends and family I’ll lose to cancer in the future.

I want this post to celebrate the joys that can come from a community built on hardship and tragedy. I want everyone to know how much other members of the worst club ever have helped me in some of my worst times.

But I also want this post to call attention to the steep price we pay for this community. Being constantly reminded of your own mortality and the high possibility of recurrence or secondary cancers sucks. Witnessing the slow deaths of people whom you love and who love you in return sucks.

I still wouldn’t trade my cancer community for anything, however, because supporting each other through the hardest parts of life is the whole point: we’re in it for the long haul, through thick and thin, in sickness and in health. No, we’re not all married to each other, but we’re committed. We have to be. We didn’t choose to join this club, but we pay the membership dues anyway.

And mourning together is infinitely better than mourning alone.