Cancer.

It is the ugliest word.

It is vicious and unforgiving, and it takes from us the most precious and beloved things in our lives- our family, our dignity, our hope. Millions of people everyday are fighting the fight to overcome and destroy this ugly word- this tiny, powerful, evil little thing that likes to sneak up on us in the most horrific ways, at the worst of times, to the best of people.

We all know this word. We all know about cancer.

I have yet to meet someone who has not been affected by it. Some have triumphed and conquered it, some have unwillingly surrendered, and some have been on the sidelines, cheering on their family and friends, searching for answers and cures. Some take it on directly- literally cutting it out of their patients, taking organs and tissue, and reconstructing the human body in hopes that these people will be able to live on without cancer. They are heroes. They give us hope. But while there are many heroes found in the stories of cancer, they too are defeated, sometimes far too often.

For me, cancer has woven itself into the stories of my past, taking with it some of the most precious souls. I first learned about cancer when I was in the 2nd grade- my grandmother had a brain tumor. I remember visiting her in those last months, listening to her laugh, drinking root beer floats, and watching her hair fall out. I remember what it looked like to be sick, to be dying. I learned what cancer looked like. It was the first time I realized what death meant, and what loss meant, and that it’s ok to cry about those things. I learned that sometimes there is no reason or explanation for it, and that often it is unfair. Why did it have to take her? She was my grandma, and yet I felt like I barely had any time to get to know her here on this earth.

Just a few months later, a childhood friend of mine and fellow classmate lost her battle to leukemia. I found myself in a fog of confusion- two people in the same year? What was this thing called cancer? All I knew at that young age is that it was awful, and that I hated it, and that it was the ugliest word.

Over the years, I comforted friends who lost loved ones to cancer, and I watched in awe as some people turned into survivors, and gave us all hope.  I never thought that when I grew up, planned my wedding, and started my journey of motherhood that I would meet cancer yet again. The big difference this time is that it is far too close for comfort.  This time, my dad was diagnosed with cancer.  He is the strongest man I know, and it brought him to his knees.  His diagnosis came the week of my wedding, and I was heartbroken. I know I held him a little tighter that week- I cried as we walked down the aisle and laughed as we danced the night away. I tried to savor each and every moment so I wouldn’t forget. This isn’t to say that I wasn’t hopeful, because we all were, but I wanted to be prepared for any outcome. We rallied around him with smiles on our faces. “You will beat this! They caught it! The odds are in your favor!” We shared the news with our family and friends, and we all stayed positive…because in the face of cancer, what other choice is there? His surgery was scheduled the week after the arrival of my first-born daughter. He became a grandfather for the first time, and then soon after, jumped head first into an uphill battle, fighting for his life. How can life be so unfair?

“The margins are good. We are really optimistic. Typically we would expect only about a 5% chance of recurrance,” they said, and I felt relieved. But less than a year later, the bad news came again. It had come back. They told us they would have to be more aggressive this time, and back into the hospital he went. The second time they took part of his tongue, and reconstructed it with muscle tissue from his thigh. They had to make an incision across his neck from ear to ear, creating a battle wound that would remain a constant reminder of how powerful cancer can be. His recovery was more challenging, and the radiation difficult and painful. His speech was different, and it was hard for him to eat. This cancer was taking its toll…

Fast forward nine months…we are now settled into our new home in Spokane, and we are anxiously awaiting the summer months when we will finally be able to enjoy time with the family by the lake.  This is when we get hit with yet another blow. A tumor is back. I feel helpless- I am now five months pregnant with my second child, I moved away from home, and started a new job…I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time and I’m guiltstricken for leaving. The words were all too familiar, the options simple, yet hard to grasp. His best chance of survival was another surgery, yet this one would once again be more agressive than the last. The weight of that was heavy- he would never talk or eat again. They were taking his whole tongue, whole voicebox, and creating a permanent feeding tube. The risk of complications was high and the fear was evident, for all of us. How much pain would this cause? What is his prognosis after surgery? Does he even want to go through with this? I asked this last question only silently to myself because I couldn’t bare to think of what the answer might be. When I found out my dad didn’t even hesitate when he was faced with that very question, I cried in relief. He is a fighter through and through and he was not going to surrender to this little, ugly, word.

Finally, finally, we have made it up and over that big gigantic hump- the one that included surgery, infection, weeks of wound packing, surgery complications, an ambulance ride, multiple hospital admissions, many road trips across the state, lots of tears, lots of hope, and ultimately…healing. My dad is on the mend, yet again. We are taking each day as it comes. We are learning to communicate in new ways- through technology, clapping, lip reading, eye contact, and sign language. Sometimes it’s a game of charades, which can be frustrating or funny. He has been trying new things, learning new things, and certainly not shying away from this new way of life. He has become an incredible baker, making our favorites from scratch and experimenting with new recipes. He wants to take a woodworking class. He plays with his grandbabies. He is still here. I am so incredibly grateful for that.

Cancer took a lot from us, but it also made me realize that we are all stronger than we give ourselves credit for. Cancer reminded me how quickly our lives can change, and how we must take nothing for granted, not even the little moments. Those moments are the ones that get burned into your memory when you are faced with tragedy. Cancer is relentless, but it too can crumble. Cancer can be defeated, and our loved ones can overcome. Maybe cancer, once and for all, can be cured, even if it is the “moonshot” of our generation. Afterall, cancer is just this tiny little thing, albeit powerful and evil, but in the end it’s just an ugly, ugly word.