The Cancer Isn't Each Other.

Feet pics, which means chemo day. 🤍

We are halfway.

It doesn’t get easier.

We just learn to deal with what is in front of us and take one day at a time.

The nurses are absolutely amazing. Especially his nurses today. The care and connection they gave our son was exactly what he needed to lift his spirits.

And we had the chance to talk with a couple of women there too.

One woman, a few years younger than me, gets her mammograms every year. Her husband stood beside her, sharing the pain she has been through, and all I could see was the pain he was carrying too. They both looked exhausted. Yet they were still able to smile and share funny stories about their 10-year-old son. She found a lump that appeared on her chest one day and learned she has stage 3 breast cancer.

Her chemo treatment is brutal.

Another woman had just turned 30. She found out she had breast cancer last year at 29. Sitting beside her was her mom.

Cancer fucking sucks.

It sucks for the person fighting it, and it sucks for the family members who love that person with every ounce of their being and are fighting right alongside them.

But despite the pain, the connection, and simply being able to talk with people, both the person fighting cancer and the caregiver walking this journey with them, was helpful. It made everything feel a little less scary and a little less lonely.

Here is what I was thinking today...

When we walk into the infusion center, everyone is rooting for each other.

Everyone wants the other person fighting cancer to win.

Everyone wants the caregiver sitting beside their loved one to feel like they can breathe again too.

Everyone is kind. Everyone is encouraging.

Everyone sees each other without having to say a word.

And I keep thinking... what if this love, this acceptance, this wanting the same thing for everyone around us transferred outside those walls too?

What if regular folks, all just trying to live our lives, chase our dreams, and hold onto hope, realized we actually want many of the same things? To pay our bills. Feed our families. Have access to healthcare. Affordable housing. Love who we love. Raise our kids safely without worrying about them getting shot at school, or anywhere else, for that matter. Maybe even have a little left over to enjoy this one wild and precious life.

And can we talk about "affordable housing" for a second? Because when the starting price of a home is in the mid to high $500,000s, who exactly is that affordable for?

Why are so many people working two or three jobs just to survive?

Don't we all want the same basic things?

And why can't we want those things for each other too?

What if Black and brown people didn't have to fear for their lives during a traffic stop? What if people didn't have to choose between groceries and prescriptions?

What if every child had access to a quality education and every family had the dignity of stability and care?

What if we stopped allowing rich and powerful people to divide us while they continue to profit from our suffering?

Because honestly, sitting in that infusion center makes some things feel very clear.

The cancer isn't each other.

It's the systems and ideologies that teach us some people matter more than others. It's white supremacy. Racism. Christian nationalism. An economic system that too often values profit over people.

And what if we fought those things with the same compassion, humanity, and determination that exists inside those chemo walls?

What if more of us, especially white people, could sit in our discomfort, listen to understand, and truly see one another's humanity?

I'm both white and a woman of color. I'm Irish and Hawaiian. Part of my own healing journey has been recognizing the racism and biases I carried, learning where they came from, and doing the work to unlearn them. It wasn't comfortable, but growth rarely is.

That feels like one step toward healing the sickness.

 I hate that our son has to get chemo twice a month.

i hate sitting in that room.

I hate that he has to sit in that room.

I hate he has to go through this and I can't fix it.

I hate that it's him and not me.

I hate the only thing I can do is love him through this.

I hate that I have zero control.

And yet, for a few hours, I'm surrounded by people who aren't pretending. Pain, suffering, love, hope, fear, and joy all exist together without masks. Everyone knows life can change in an instant. Everyone understands that none of us can do this alone.

And in that room, despite all the heartbreak, everyone wants each other to win.