What you lose to cancer that you may never want back
I used to worry about almost everything. A traffic jam made me tense. A bad haircut could ruin my week. I worried about whether people liked me, whether I was doing enough, and whether my yard looked better than my neighbor’s. Then cancer showed up and thinned out those worries, like fog lifting when the sun finally breaks through.
I’m not going to call cancer a gift. That feels wrong. But I will say this, some of what cancer takes from you? You may not want it back.
Let me start with pretending. Cancer took my ability to act interested in conversations that don’t matter. Small talk about the weather or weekend plans used to feel like social glue, a way to be polite. Now I can’t always find the energy for it. When someone asks how I am, I’ve lost the reflex to say, “Fine,” when I’m not. I either tell the truth, or I steer the talk somewhere else. The fake smile, the forced excitement, the careful habit of saying what people want to hear, cancer stripped that away. I thought I’d miss being agreeable. I don’t.
My fear of performing also faded. For years, I worried about how I looked, how I sounded, and whether I came across as impressive in meetings or at social events. Chemo doesn’t just take your hair, it takes your drive to keep up an image. When you’re bald, worn out, and your face shows the truth, you stop trying to impress people. You can’t keep it up, so you let it go. What surprised me was the relief. I’d been acting my way through life and didn’t even know it.
Many toxic relationships ended without a dramatic break. Some people slipped away the moment my diagnosis became real. They didn’t know how to sit with pain. They didn’t know what to say. Before cancer, I collected people like that, friends who showed up for the fun, family members who asked for more than I could give, co-workers who took and rarely returned the favor. Cancer showed me what was real. They disappeared. The quiet they left behind felt cleaner than their presence ever did.
I stopped caring so much about stuff. The pile of things that once felt important, the right car, the latest smartphone, the perfect kitchen remodel, started to look absurd. When you aren’t sure how long you’ll be here, you stop chasing more things and start craving more moments. I look at my garage full of tools, half-finished projects, and abandoned hobbies, and I feel almost nothing. My grip on possessions loosened somewhere between my second and third rounds of chemo. Most of what matters now fits in a much smaller space.
My career drive changed, too. I was a surgeon for over 30 years. My work held up my name, my pride, my sense of worth. Cancer forced me into retirement. I thought I’d spend the rest of my life grieving it. But I don’t miss the politics. I don’t miss the egos. I don’t miss the constant race to be better, faster, and more admired. I miss helping patients. I don’t miss the role of being a doctor. Those are not the same thing.
My need for certainty also fell apart. I used to plan everything. I tried to control what I could and keep risk on a short leash. Cancer laughed at my plans. Treatment shifts. Scan results surprise you. Side effects show up without warning. I learned to live with not knowing because I had no other choice. Now I see how exhausting my hunger for certainty was. How much life I spent trying to predict the next blow. I can’t know. No one can. That used to terrify me. Now it’s just the truth.
I also lost my patience for nonsense, corporate slogans, political word games, and people who lie to themselves and call it hope. Life is too short. I say what I mean. I ask for what I need. I walk away from what drains me. I used to think that made me difficult. Now I think it makes me honest.
Cancer wrecked my old life and left me with something simpler. Less polished, more real. Some days I miss who I was before. Most days I don’t. The person I used to be carried a lot that didn’t help. I’m lighter now, even though this disease has put me through hell. I’m closer to what’s true.
And what’s true is enough.
