It has been two years since my last confession.
Throughout my cancer journey, this space has been an outlet for me to share what I am feeling or thinking in the moment. For 10 years, my lyrical prose has walked hand-in-hand with my husband’s more clinical reports: a kite flapping in the wind, the string held down by the steady anchor that is Godfrey.
And yet…
And yet, I struggle to find the words now. I have experienced writer’s block before, but this is more than just a simple blank screen-inspired barrier. This is more. I was talking to my writing mentor about my issues with writer’s block, and he said that perhaps a good place to start would be by being honest with myself and with you.
And so, here I am, writing about not being able to write.
I am stuck on what feels like a rock face, trapped between past and future, the perils I have overcome and the ones that lie before me. As the latter grow more clear—perversely embedded in the wonder drug that has allowed me to climb so high—my perch has felt ever more dizzying and disorienting, but I cannot seem to move.
I started writing this months ago, as we were ringing in the new year. Now that spring is approaching, I suddenly am struck by the passage of time. It is an everyday occurrence, but still I am surprised by how quickly time goes by. My routine is measured in days and weeks, not years, and yet, 10 years have come and gone. We spend so much without even realizing it.
One of the reasons why it has been difficult for me to convey my thoughts and feelings is because I am conflicted whenever a new year rolls around.
Actually, conflicted is not the right word. I am downright bitter.
On the one hand, the new year is a time of celebration—we gather and party with loved ones, we sing “Auld Lang Syne” and cheer a fresh start, and we form resolutions to make this year better than the one before it.
On the other hand, the new year is a time of reflection—we look back on the previous year and regret the things we were unable to accomplish, we think about people we lost, and we ruminate on challenges we know we must face in the coming year.
I lost the yin and yang of the new year when I was first diagnosed with cancer in December 2014, around my 30th birthday. It was very difficult to be celebratory on January 1, 2015, when I felt my life was essentially over. And, when it came time to come up with a new year’s resolution, all I could think of was one thing:
“Beat Cancer.”
In a way, cancer stole my annual resolutions after that. As people were thinking about changing diets or fitness routines, or pursuing promotions, or being better parents and siblings, all I could think about was beating terminal cancer. I resented cancer for taking over my life. With the passing of every year, I felt it had stolen more from me, and here it was sapping even my power of resolution.
Change, and the uncertainty and apprehension that come with it, is inevitable. If I am being honest, I think about what lies in front of me this year—medical complications and the great unknown they inescapably heighten—and I am scared.
Hence my inability to write, resulting in two years of silence.
I am reminded of Ulysses (also known as Odysseus in Greek), the mythical hero of Homer’s Odyssey. Ulysses embarks on numerous adventures throughout his journey home from war, encountering a host of trials and obstacles while still traumatized by the violence and loss that comes with battle. But he persists in the face of danger, resilient and brave, returning home even more victorious than when his journey began.
Odyssey has come to mean “a long wandering or voyage usually marked by many changes of fortune.” I have endured a cancer odyssey for a decade and, like Ulysses, am encountering a trial, an obstacle, that most likely will change my current trajectory. It is in these moments that I tell myself setbacks are opportunities to practice resilience.
To be even more victorious than when my journey began.
In Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s epic poem, “Ulysses” (which is the inspiration behind the title of my blog), he imagines the titular hero speaking to his trusty mariners in their shared old age, affirming his intention to “drink / Life to the lees”—to the fullest. It is a stirring pep talk in stanza form, and the message feels more relevant to me now than ever before.
During these past 10 years, I have been placed on a pedestal built from hope and miracles. I have felt guilt in my survival, that I have lived when so many others have been lost. I am a battered and weathered soul in need of a stirring pep talk, preferably in stanza form.
“Come, my friends, / ’T is not too late to seek a newer world.”
Tennyson’s “Ulysses” reminds me that what I do in life cannot be done alone. No matter how much this cancer takes from me, no matter how altered my future becomes, my support system gives back tenfold. Even the mythical hero Ulysses received help from his men and from various gods—Hermes and Athena come to mind—during his odyssey.
I know that my odyssey is an inspiration to many, so I feel pressure to do it all by myself, to get unstuck from the crag on which I am currently trapped. But it is okay to be fragile and vulnerable; it is okay to ask for and to receive support from others. I had writer’s block, and I asked for advice. Sometimes it takes a helping hand—say, a caregiving spouse or a writing mentor—to continue one’s climb.
“To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
For someone who does not know what to write, I sure have written quite a bit—more than usual. Funny how things work out like that.
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