What? The? Actual? Fuck?

Okay, I am feeling a bit angry today. And sad. And a tad defeated.

Last week, my baby brother was diagnosed with Stage 2 testicular cancer that has spread to the surrounding lymph nodes. He is officially the 4^th person in my 6-person immediate family to be diagnosed with cancer. First my dad had brain cancer that killed him within a year of diagnosis when I was eleven years old. Then I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer at age 44 and lost an entire year of my life to treatment and I am still dealing with the aftermath on a daily basis. Then one year – almost to the day – after my diagnosis, my mom was diagnosed with Stage 1 breast cancer and went through painful surgery and radiation.  Now my brother is preparing to undergo a second surgery (he’s already had the testicle removed) to remove the affected lymph nodes, followed by possible chemo. Or radiation? We do not know yet because he is stuck in the infernal cancer holding pattern. Waiting for news. Waiting for a call. Waiting for an appointment. Waiting for a prognosis. Waiting for the shit that will fuck up his life for months to come to get started already for fuck’s sake so there will be an end in sight at some point in the distant future.

We’ve been genetically tested. Yep, both my mom and I were fully tested. There appears to be no genetic markers for cancer in my family. So what’s the deal? 66% of my family gets cancer (so far) and it’s just a fluke? Are we cursed? Does the Ralph family just have laughably horrible luck? Is cancer particularly fond of us? I mean we’re cute and all. But come on, leave us alone.

I don’t know. Honestly, I do not even know why I am writing this blog today. I am just feeling an intense sense of outrage on my brother’s behalf. I want to scream into the abyss about the unfairness of it all. He’s only 41 years old. He has two small children. He is in the process of selling his house. He has so much on his plate right now that cancer is the very last thing he should be thinking about.  But that’s what cancer does. It strikes you in your prime. It stalks you and attacks when you least expect it. I don’t think anyone ever sees it coming.

Here’s the other thing with cancer. Once it’s got you, it never let’s go. I am cancer free right now. Have been for four years. In December of this year, I will hit the five-year mark of being cancer free, which supposedly is a big deal because most cancers, if they are going to come back, will do so within the first five years.

But it doesn’t matter than I am officially cancer free because I still live with cancer every day. My cancer was in all three levels of my lymph nodes. My surgeon was only able to take out two levels (apparently, your body needs at least one level of lymph nodes in that area) which means that after my double mastectomy, I still had cancer in my lymph nodes. I underwent six weeks of grueling every-day radiation afterwards and then my oncologist declared me cancer free. Not in remission – he does not use that word – but cancer free.

For the moment.

But here’s the thing – cancer cells are tiny. Itsy bitsy little pieces of shit. How do I know that one tiny cell did not break off and decide to go on an excursion to Organtown. To my lungs? My liver? My bones? Or most terrifying of all, to my brain? I live every day with the thought that any minute now the cancer will take hold again. Every little ache is proof positive in my mind of bone cancer. Every cough is lung cancer. Every forgotten word – and I forget a lot of words – is brain cancer. The psychological fallout of cancer is even more insidious than the physical effects.

But I do have physical effects. I have pain. Pain that affects me every day. My scar hurts. And it itches. A deep, deep itch. But my armpit on that side is still numb four years later. You can’t scratch numb tissue. It just doesn’t work. So I live with the itch. My left arm aches. My hands and feet fall asleep from chemo-induced neuropathy. My feet hurt constantly.

I try to pretend I am fine. That I am “over it.” But that’s a lie. I am content, but not fine. I try to live my best life. I try to make the most of the life that was gifted to me – and I do consider my four years cancer-free a gift for which I haven’t quite decided if I am worthy yet – when so many others have died from the same disease. So many people were given the same diagnosis as me. Went through the same treatment as me and did not come out the other side. There is no rhyme or reason to my survival and others’ demise. Cancer takes and takes and takes. And I will live with the fear of a recurrence every day for the rest of my life.

As does my mom. And now as will my brother.

Cancer is shit.

Can’t it just leave us alone?

Please.