When Everything is a Reminder
I am frequently reminded of my diagnosis—whether it’s the fatigue that chases me, the side effects from medications, or someone asking how I’m doing.
But it’s never a casual “Hey! How are you?” tossed to a friend in passing. No, it’s that head-tilted, voice-softened kind of concern, the one that almost whispers, “How… are you?”
I can’t forget, though I try. Sometimes, even for just a few minutes, I want to believe I’m okay. I want to forget that cancer has completely rearranged my life.
Everything, everywhere, serves as a reminder.
It’s even harder on the days when I hear awful news—another person in my shoes, gone. Some are older. Some are my age. Some, heartbreakingly, are even younger. It hits me hard every single time, whether I knew them or not. And I can’t help but think, “That could’ve been me.”
This disease is relentless. It doesn’t care about age, effort, or the fact that people depend on us.
What’s hardest to accept is how quickly it can all change. Some of those who’ve passed seemed fine just before the end. It’s jarring. Sobering. Terrifying.
I work out. I eat well. I do everything "right." But when I see others being taken despite it all, those scary thoughts creep in. Am I really okay right now? And if I am… for how long?
Everything, everywhere, serves as a reminder.
I know spiraling doesn’t help. But sometimes, it’s unavoidable. It just… comes with the territory.
Every choice I make feels like a quiet act of survival. When I’m tempted to stray from my strict diet, I remind myself: I am fighting for my life. Every decision counts against a silent, stealthy killer. I have to outlast it, outperform it, outwit it. One tiny slip feels like leaving the door cracked open—an invitation.
I tell myself, I’m not like them. I’m strong. I’m healthy. I’m stubborn. I’m driven.
And while all of that is true, so is this: I am not invincible.
Everything, everywhere, serves as a reminder.
It is even in the unseen—stored trauma in my body that automatically reacts to a season. Like spring coming back around, quietly reminding me of when my diagnosis caught me off guard. The flowers were blooming, the air was warming, and I was happily going about my life. I was looking forward to my wife and son’s birthdays in May, and to the arrival of my new son in June. I was looking forward to a summer full of memories.
So why do I feel relief at the sight of flowers popping up and grass turning green, yet something inside me recoils—like a sadness trying to seep in? I’m told the body stores trauma. It remembers, even when your brain doesn’t.
My mind feels joy in the color and the warmth of spring, but my body braces itself… remembering.
Everything, everywhere, serves as a reminder.
