A letter to my friend who was diagnosed with cancer this week. This week I learned you were diagnosed with cancer, and I thought I’d sit down and write the words that were swarming my mind last night as I went to bed and were in my heart all weekend as I thought about you. I’ve repeatedly shared some of these sentiments over the years as others have heard this same hard news. But today, when I thought of them for you, I wanted to stop and write them down. I hope you fully grasp how much I’m cheering for you, praying for you, and lacing up my gloves again to fight this battle with you. You are a warrior, you can do this!

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Man, my heart sank when I heard your news today. I know your heart is heavy as well, and you cannot begin to imagine what is in front of you. 

It sucks. 

It’s overwhelming. 

It’s isolating, yet all you may want to do is hold your people close. 

I don’t know your diagnosis or the details of everything in front of you. And frankly, I’ve been scared to even reach out to you. I know I don’t need to say anything, but yet I have no words. 

Today is my 14th cancerversary. 14 years since I was put in remission. And last month at my visit with my oncologist, he cut me off. He told me at this point that anyone should say I’m cured and therefore, I didn’t need to come to see him anymore. 

It was a weird feeling. 15 years ago, he is the last person I would have ever wanted to meet. And now, there is a familiarity and connection that I wasn’t ready to give up. 

So, what am I writing to tell you?  I’m not sure because I don’t know all your details. But, I do know cancer is not the hardest thing I ever had to deal with. You can do this. 

I know I never could have imagined on March 26, 2008, a day like today.  I never felt like I would live past that summer and the scene unfolding around me. 

But I had amazing friends and family who showed up for me, and I am ok now. I know it was hard, but prayer, grit, deep seeded determination, and trusting a God who has always been in control got me through. 

Unfortunately, statistics tell us this will be part of 1 out of 3 of our stories. Now, you and I have fulfilled a statistic. But I also know after a 15-year relationship with this disease and the amazing people you meet along the way that this does not define you. It is only now part of your story. 

But, fighting like a warrior. Loving people around you. Leaning into community. Living in adventure. And letting Jesus take the wheel is also your story. 

We spent this day together at the Buffalo River after church this morning. We checked something off our Arkansas Bucketlist. We walked to a new outlook and saw a breathtaking view. We played in water that has been carved through mountains for millions of years. 

And, while I was out there, I thought about you. 

In this moment of time where nothing seems to make sense, please know you are seen, loved, and cared about. 

Your circumstances last week did not take our Creator by surprise. Dare I say, while He did not make this happen, He allowed it to happen. He has been preparing you in advance for what is to come. You can do this. 

There will be hard conversations. 
There will be needle pokes. 
Maybe there will be surgeries and probably scans. 
But, you can do this. 

There might be chemo. 
There might be radiation. 
But, you can do this. 

You might lose your hair. 
You might have weird scars.
But, you can do this. 

You are emotionally exhausted right now. 
Get out a journal and write down what you are feeling. 
Talk to your husband and let him take care of you. 
Don’t be too brave for your kids, they are smart (bc they are like you!). 

Your friends are shocked and scared too. Let them bring you a casserole or watch kids for a date night. Crumbl cookies will probably make you feel better. 

You are strong, and you CAN do this. 

In the days, weeks, and months to come, we can talk about all the possibilities, things you don’t even know to ask about right now. 

• Scans. 
• Biopsies. 
• Ports. 
• Surgeries. 
• Ovaries. 
• Hormones. 
• Hot Flashes. 
• Therapies. 
• Protocols. 
• Wigs. 
• Routines. 
• Snacks. 
• Meals. 
• Drinks. 
• Smells. 
• Tastes. 
• Clothing. 

All of those things will come. The people taking care of you are for you. They want what’s best for you. Ask them whatever you want to. Know what’s happening, and just trust them if that’s all you need to do. 

You can do this. 

When you wanna ask someone who has been there and done that, reach out. 

• I’ve been awake through two neck needle biopsies. 
• I’ve had all kinds of sticks and pokes. 
• I’ve fainted in the lab. 
• I’ve taken chemo in my hand and in a port. 
• I’ve picked out a wig. 
• I’ve contemplated freezing eggs. 
• I’ve taken chemo. 
• I’ve experienced radiation. 
• I’ve had radiation marker stickers on my body in spots that were visible to others.
• I’ve been stared at by kids and grown women.
• I’ve answered weird questions to men who were strangers.
• I’ve had hot flashes. 
• I’ve peed red stuff after chemo no one warned me about. 
• I’ve pushed an IV pole to the bathroom. 
• I’ve been pumped through with light-sensitive medicines. 
• I’ve lost taste buds and rebuilt new ones. 
• I’ve smelled weird things and expelled funny smells. 
• I’ve eaten chemo room snacks. 
• I’ve fought with an old lady over what shows to watch during treatment. 
• I’ve written a will and end-of-life directives. 

But, also,

• I’ve unpacked a chemo bag when I didn’t need it anymore. 
• I’ve smashed prescription bottles of medicine I didn’t want to take. 
• I’ve burned medical bills and treatment documentation. 
• I’ve had a baby my body was not supposed to produce. 
• I’ve gotten rid of hats and scarves that I no longer needed. 
• I’ve hugged nurses and doctors. 
• I’ve rug the bell. 
• I’ve circled the sun 14 more times.

And in the middle of all that, I’ve lived a lot of life. Traveled around the world. Gotten married and had a kid. I’ve made tons of friends and lost others. I’ve raised a bunch of money for cancer. I’ve sat across tables from researchers. I’ve donated to Hope Lodges. I’ve walked survivor laps. I’ve stood across the table, looked legislators in the eyes, and advocated for more research dollars and less arguing. I’ve shared my story. I’ve buried friends. I’ve won trophies and completed interviews. I’ve laughed, and I’ve cried. 

We have so much we can chat through when you are ready. For now, I hope you will feel my hug and embrace. Lean into whoever you trust to walk this with you. And if we never speak or talk multiple times a week, please know I’m cheering for you. Praying for you. And believing every step of the way that you can do this!

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If you are new around here, you may not know that I started this blog the weekend I was diagnosed with cancer, and if you are curious about those early feelings or any step of my journey, please feel free to dig around my blog. I was diagnosed in March 2008 and went through treatment from April-August. Then any posts dated 2008 or 2009 is me trying to learn a new normal after remission.

My post on being 10 years cancer-free outlines so many of those posts and highlights my own cancer journey.

I’m here when you are ready to chat!