Mojo and the Mess

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Not the big moments.

Not the diagnosis.
Not the scans.
Not even hearing the word metastatic for the first time.

People talk about those parts. They know how to react to those parts. They send flowers, prayers, encouraging messages, and tell you to “stay strong.”

But nobody really talks about the smaller things. The quiet humiliations that slowly pile up until one day you realize cancer hasn’t just changed your health. It’s changed the way you move through the world.

Nobody tells you how embarrassing it feels to throw up into a plastic bag in a parking garage while people walk past pretending not to notice.

Or how humbling it is to suddenly need help opening a water bottle because your hands are weak from treatment.

Nobody explains what it feels like when your body stops cooperating with basic things you used to do without thinking. Showering. Walking through a grocery store. Carrying laundry. Sleeping through the night. Eating normally. Existing normally.

Cancer strips away privacy first.

At some point, strangers know your body better than you do. Nurses have seen you cry. Doctors have seen every scar, bruise, and version of you that you never imagined people would see. You get used to changing clothes with people in the room. Used to discussing things that once felt deeply personal like they’re everyday conversation. Used to being touched constantly.

And after a while, you almost stop realizing how abnormal all of it really is.

That part gets me sometimes. How quickly survival becomes routine.

The first time your hair falls out feels devastating. Then eventually you’re wiping hair off your pillow every morning like it’s another thing on your checklist.

The first time treatment makes you sick in public feels horrifying. Then eventually you start carrying medications, crackers, chargers, puke bags, and backup clothes everywhere because experience has taught you not to trust your own body anymore.

The first time you need help standing up because you’re too weak hurts in a way that’s hard to explain.

Especially when you remember the version of yourself that never had to think twice about any of those things before.

I think one of the hardest parts of cancer is how much dignity gets chipped away little by little.

Not all at once. Not in some huge life-changing moment. Just slowly.

You lose independence in pieces.

Your life starts revolving around symptoms, medications, appointments, energy levels, side effects, insurance calls, lab results, and whether your body is going to cooperate that day.

Some days you don’t even recognize yourself anymore either.

The swelling from steroids. The bruises from IVs. The tape marks. The bloating. The pale skin. The exhaustion sitting on your face no matter how hard you try to hide it.

People mean well when they say things like, “You still look good.” But sometimes you don’t feel good at all.

Sometimes you feel like a shell of the person you used to be trying very hard to make everyone else comfortable with what’s happening to you.

And I think that’s one of the loneliest parts of all of this. How much energy goes into trying not to make other people uncomfortable.

Trying not to look too sick.
Trying not to sound too negative.
Trying not to let people see how much your life has actually changed behind closed doors.

Meanwhile your entire world revolves around trying to survive treatment while treatment is also the thing making you sick.

Cancer isn’t just the life-threatening moments people picture when they hear the word.

Sometimes it’s sitting on the bathroom floor at 2 a.m. because your body can’t handle another round of chemo.

Sometimes it’s crying because you’re too exhausted to do something simple by yourself.

Sometimes it’s feeling embarrassed by how dependent you’ve become when you never wanted to rely on anyone in the first place.

Sometimes it’s grieving all the ordinary parts of your life that disappeared so quietly you didn’t even notice them leaving at first.

And honestly, I think those losses deserve to be talked about more too. Because surviving cancer is not just about staying alive.

It’s also learning how to live through all the smaller heartbreaks that come with it.

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If this resonated with you, there’s more honest writing waiting for you over at Mojo & The Mess.

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