When the Odds Are Against You, Cancer Is Purgatory
Hello, I am writing to you from Purgatory. The odds of me getting out still sit around 7% to 10% (maybe as high as 30% if you count a tiny study from Japan). Once or twice per week I lay awake at night crying, wondering if I am going to die. I really don’t want to fucking die. I try to stay positive. But dark thoughts penetrate my brain, they dig into my consciousness like, well, a cancer.
“What if the treatment doesn’t work? It doesn’t work for most people.”
“What if it comes back and this is just a slow ride to death? It is for most people.”
I watched my dad die for eight years, please Universe, don’t let that be me.
But then, I feel guilty for allowing the negative thoughts to take up space in my world, to pierce my resolve and crack away at my resilience. So, I fight back, “You are not most people. You are Taryn. You can do this. Some people are cured.”
The fight gets harder with each passing day in Purgatory (especially with the no alcohol allowed policy). I am immunocompromised. I can’t go out into public, I can’t see anyone who has been on a plane, I can’t be around children, I wash my hands five thousand times per day. Headlines of Coronavirus in Riverside, California — 40 miles from me — terrify me. I am isolated from the world, except through social media. I am stuck in my house, waiting. Waiting for a future that I dream will rescue me.
I think about complaining to a manager — but who’s the manager in the store of life or death?
I want to think about my next moves, my life after cancer, but it’s frustrating and depressing. What if there are no next moves? What if there is no life after cancer? We’re back on the ferris wheel of negative thoughts spinning ‘round and round. Sometimes it’s hard to get off.
Most days I am positive, I am strong. I tell myself my cancer is gone (I truly believe this). I tell myself I will be stronger than biology. I will tackle chemo and radiation with the grit of a Gladiator — entering the arena each time knowing with every cell in my body that I will walk away alive. But here in Purgatory that’s all you can do is sit in a cage of cancer and believe you are stronger than those who perished before you. You must walk over their bodies as you climb to the mountaintop. You must believe that everything will be okay, because somehow, despite the numbers, you will persevere where others have failed. You must believe in yourself beyond any reasonable doubt.
It’s exhausting. I fill my days with reading, acupuncture, yoga, vegetables, rituals, music and dogs. And I am privileged. I am fighting cancer from a place a privilege and I know that. I am attempting to tip the scales in my favor with every breath, heartbeat, guided meditation and ounce of my being. But there’s always the little voice that asks, “What if none of that matters? What if it’s luck?”
Then, I hope I am lucky.
I hope I can return to life and live without looking over my shoulder.
I hope I can become a positive influence on the world.
I hope I can experience life in new light, one now filled with gratitude.
I hope I can give others hope.
I hope that my time in Purgatory will be temporary. A blip on the radar. That I will look back on my visit here as a blessing in disguise.
As someone, who gave me much hope, said “This is your realignment by fire.” I hope to walk through the flames a stronger person than I entered.
But for now, I wait.
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For those who don’t know, I was diagnosed with Stage 3C Small Cell Neuroendocrine cancer in October 2019. There are less than 200 cases per year. There is no research, funding or clinical trials for this cancer. If you would like to learn more please visit https://necervix.com/facts/.
I also have a GoFundMe here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-taryn-beat-cancer.