Reba Cooks #14

The downfall of democracy, a cancer diagnosis, a dinner party. How was your week?

I have cancer.

Phew. There, I said it. Typed it rather. I have said it out loud a few times, but not many because when I say it, whether it’s in exasperation to Chris or to myself in the mirror, I tend to find myself hovering above my body watching my lips mouth the words, but finding it hard to believe them.

To be specific, it’s breast cancer. At the ripe old age of 39 I had my very first mammogram which quickly led to many other firsts in the span of a month: first stereotactic needle biopsy, first breast MRI (hard pass would not recommend), first ultrasound guided biopsy, and finally first diagnosis. The prognosis is good - stage 1A of the most common type of cancer out there. Treatments are effective, research is well funded, my doctor is excellent and there is a clear path back to health for me. This practicality is helpful, but doesn’t seem to reconcile within my brain, ignoring all of the facts and instead constantly bouncing around from complete denial to “of course it’s cancer what else could it be?”

The day after the election was the day of the ultrasound guided biopsy. I, along with so many others, was in a fog that day after waking up to see the news that Kamala lost. When I went into the ultrasound, I attempted to compartmentalize my thoughts but unfortunately the compartment I swapped for “you might have cancer” was instead the dramatic “is this the end of our democracy?” Eventually, I chose to blur the two, welcoming the pain of the numbing needle injection with a tear rolling down the right side of my face and into my ear, not really knowing which reason was causing the tears. All this to say: It was a lot.

Two days later, the cancer-laden pathology report dropped into my phone with no warning. The next hour was a blur as we clumsily Googled what things meant (we knew enough to be upset), paced around the house, and finally talked to the doctor.

The diagnosis itself is a shock, but not a surprise. My family is riddled with the stuff. My dad died from Renal Cell cancer in 2005, and his mom and dad before him of colon and bladder respectively. On my dad’s side alone we have over a dozen instances of cancer between my generation and my paternal grandparents. As a result of this familiarity, our family has a fairly dark sense of humor as well as a sense of inevitability around all of this. And maybe also because of this, I feel utterly compelled to share. There is no shame in being diagnosed with cancer, it is not a result of anything I have done other than be born into this family, into this world, and have the pleasure of owning a set of boobs. I fired off texts with the news and asked people to text others on my behalf. If I had to know about this shitty news, than you did too.

So now what? Now that I had buzzkilled everyone’s Friday afternoon by dropping an “I have cancer” in the group chat? Well, seemed fitting to have people over for dinner.

My cousin Jess and I have hosted a camping trip for the last couple of years, but this year was derailed by a variety of scheduling conflicts and subsequently rescheduled. Instead of two nights in Michigan, we planned a “camping themed dinner” at my house. After Friday’s news I figured what the fuck why not— let’s party. We finalized the menu, prepared a campfire, set the table, and threw ourselves a proper dinner.

To say I was filled to the brim with love at that meal is not enough. Tears were blinked back, gentle hugs were given, wine was poured and we laughed a lot. I got a little drunk and walked right through my screen door (whoops) at the end of the night. I forgot for a few hours about the terrible news I had gotten the day before and was chock full of gratitude and love. It was perfect.

Since Covid, I have followed Suleika Jaouad’s The Isolation Journals and today when I felt compelled (once again) to share what’s going on, I fired up Substack to see her 2021 post about the return of her cancer right there in the middle of my homepage staring at me. She is an eloquent writer and much of what she said in that old post resonated, but the little part at the end rang especially true:

Through all of this, the words that keep coming back to me are from my friend Katherine in Ojai, who I write about in my book: “You have to shift from the gloom and doom and focus instead on what you love. That’s all you can do in the face of these things. Love the people around you. Love the life you have. I can’t think of a more powerful response to life’s sorrows than loving.”

That’s it. That’s all you can do in the face of these things.