Four years of cancer

I haven't written much about my dad's cancer, partially because I don't feel like garnering pity, but partially because it's hard to talk about. Hard to talk about it in a deep, meaningful, truthful way. I can spout answers to how he's doing, how we're dealing, in a very general way, but the truth? The deep, from my soul, truth?

I don't know if I can express that yet.

It's been four years, you would think I would have come to terms with cancer by now. And in most ways, I have. It's a part of our lives and it's the giant uncertainty that we live with.

But the future? What my dad having cancer really means?

I remember when I found out. I was walking across BYU campus through late afternoon sunlight and chilly winter air. My phone rang; it was my dad. He told me right away: "I have some bad news." I don't know what I said but I was in shock. A friend offered me a ride home; I accepted and we were halfway to the apartments before I remembered that I had driven that morning and my car was still on campus.

I spent the next week crying and trying not to cry and mostly, focusing really hard on not thinking about it. I felt like something had broken. Rachel called me one day while I was having lunch in the middle of the Wilkinson Center. I fought back tears and panic as I tried to reassure her that I was scared, too. I wanted to be home and at the same time, I didn't. I didn't want to look that word, "cancer", in the face. I was busy with work and school and I let that carry me.

Four years later, and the truth is, even though I have stopped trying to hide from cancer, I haven't really stopped trying to hide. I am still scared.