Cancer is an Unusual Journey

This week’s blog post is different from my travel-centered ones. It’s been eight years, and I finally think I can conceptualize my experience enough to put it in black and white. I have not spoken to many people about my dad’s death, and even when I do, most times say it matter-of-factly, being sure to distance myself from my feelings and their impact on me. Truth is, my dad’s stage four cancer diagnosis and his consequence death eight months later post-diagnosis are what inspired me to live fearlessly. I think I read on his death certificate that the cause of death was mantle cell lymphoma. In other words, his cancer diagnosis was just a luck of the draw, and my dad was lucky.

Cancer is funny. 

Sometimes, random and unexpected. These are my thoughts the summer before my senior year of high school when I learned of my dad’s diagnosis. I remember feeling frustrated at his diagnosis. Why now? My dad died when I was 17, a senior in high school, preparing to celebrate the end of what was, at that point, one of my greatest accomplishments. Unfortunately, he could not physically see me graduate or anything else that would happen in my life after that point. 

All you can ever do is your best.

Since my dad’s death, I’ve been angry. I’m angry at his luck and mine. I’m angry at him. I’m angry at God. I’m angry that he couldn’t see me reach a milestone. I’m angry that it was so random and aggressive and unforgiving, and there was nothing that I could do about it. I’m angry that other cancer patients recovered and my father didn’t. I’m angry that cancer continues to affect other people even after it has taken so much from me. But under all this anger is sadness. I don’t remember speaking about my dad during his cancer diagnosis or even in the days leading to his death with anyone other than my grandma, my dad’s mom. I buried my grief, and unfortunately, it has reared its head to where I cannot continue to ignore it and remain healthy in this life. I now know that sometimes you can do everything, and it will not matter, and life keeps going, and you’re left with the pieces of what was and could’ve been. 

Death is unforgiving and relentless and guaranteed to us all. 

My dad’s death serves as a constant reminder to do what I need to do because one day, I may no longer have that choice or the strength to execute it. What better way to flex this muscle than through travel?

To anyone who is battling cancer, navigating life with a loved one who has cancer, or trying to pick up the pieces after someone you loved passed from cancer, my heart is with you. I wish I had the magic words to make all of it make sense, but I don’t. My dad’s faith in God through it all is what softened the blow.This is just my experience, and I hope that no one else has to go through it, but I know that, unfortunately, someone else will. Hopefully, my experience with my dad’s cancer brings you some semblance of clarity in your battle, whatever it may be.