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A Cancer Chapter…
And Why I Won’t Write One
I moved to Baltimore less than a year after I finished treatment.
My team of doctors in Pittsburgh was fantastic, soup to nuts as they say. And lots of writers chronicle their journey, self-assured that readers will find it interesting. I’m sure many readers do find it interesting. For those who want to dive deep into the diagnosis, treatment, and celebration (or, mourning) of the process, I say good for you. But for all of the navel-gazing writing I have done, and will surely do, I have a limited capacity.
Sure, I wrote about my first October post-cancer, because that felt like a shitstorm of epic magnitude. But like I said back then, the earth heals the body slowly. I found that it heals the soul much more slowly.
In that piece, I wrote, “The recovery was long and really fucking hard and no one needs another essay about anyone’s cancer journey.” I hold to that line. It’s more true now for me than it was even before.
Throughout my treatment, I didn’t write about it, either. Instead, I took a photo of my feet, my shoes, in the waiting room every day. I did that because, especially in an oncology setting (but maybe lots of other places, too), no one looks at each other. A handful of humans will sit in the same space, waiting for ten or twenty minutes, breathing the same air, but not…
