And Then Cancer Struck. Fuck.
My fiancé was rushed to the hospital two weeks ago for emergency chemotherapy, after his “chronic” leukemia aggressively transformed from treatable and manageable—with just this little pill—to raging and blasting in his blood. No warning. Just a routine trip to the oncologist, then panic and confusion, then the harried packing of a weekend duffel with fresh underwear and socks. What the fuck?
I don’t want to write about it online. Ugh. I don’t want to narrate. Or post. Or share. Or ask for the prayers of thousands. I don’t want to lay out the story or chronicle this dark rollercoaster in web-ready diary entries. And I certainly don’t want to snap a photo of him in this contraption of a hospital bed or launch a teary GoFundMe or make peppy TikToks of how we’re coping with all by choreographing dances in the fucking hospital room.
But I do want to write. Because it’s the only act that has ever made any of it better. Words on paper, or typed on screen, have been my friends in this life — even if, at times, they have helped me lie to myself. When you’re a storyteller, you tell yourself a lot of stories. I guess we all find our own way to manage the shit parts of being alive. Words work for me. I don’t really drink. Drugs are expensive. And yoga hurts my shoulders.
I will say it all looks like you think it looks. The hospital gown. The shaved…
