They tell me I have cancer. And I believe them—because I’ve seen the scans, felt the bone ache that’s more like grief than pain.
Sometimes, I feel like a theoretical cancer patient.
I walk into the infusion center with all my hair and none of the drama. I’m the one who makes the nurses laugh and asks about their weekend plans. I am that patient. Pleasant. Their word, not mine.
And maybe that’s the worst part. Because I do have cancer. It is real. But there’s no triumphant arc, just quiet slides of numbers, and side effects no one cares about.
I’m not deteriorating fast enough to command attention. I’m not recovering dramatically enough to be inspirational. I'm in the untelevised middle.
I’m grateful. The kind that is whispered, polite, and compulsively comparative: “At least I’m not...” I know the script.
I raise my hand—“Hey, I’m itchy, I can’t sleep, my skin’s erupting.” They say, “Oh, well, that’s probably not the chemo.”
And still, I keep showing up. Appointments. Phrases. “Kick the can.” “Plenty of new drugs.” “Hard to say.”
I try not to ask for too much clarity. I try to be easy. I try to be thankful.
But I live in parentheses. The space between remission and relapse. Between vitality and visible illness.
And in that undefined space, there’s room for questions, ache, rage, and ridiculous comedy.
I've internalized their categories: Pleasant. Lucky. Theoretical.
But I know better. I know the cost of not looking sick. Of pain that doesn't show. Of ache that doesn't count.
On the best days, I feel like I can live here in the liminal space—not cured, not dying, not dramatic. Just—real.
Theoretical. But real.