Tag: fuck cancer

Hi! I’m still here! And yes, that’s me wearing a banana clip.

It’s been a while since I’ve written on my blog. Social media has once again rendered me slightly apathetic; I’ve gone dark passing behind the moon in my seasonal orbit. Lately, Instagram is a heavy, gray cloud saturated with depressing news of cancer colleagues having recurrences or passing away. People are sick. Cancer still has no cure. I try to avert my eyes from these daily reminders—the Devil’s malevolent propaganda—as I scroll over the irritating fluorescence of my iPhone screen.

Call it self-preservation. I refuse to accept that death or relapse may someday happen to me too…eluding the scientific realities of my Oncotype-DX score which contrarily reminds me of the extremely high probability that I will, in fact, get cancer again. But who wants to talk about that? So, I try to go on Instagram and Facebook minimally to avoid the terrifying reminders of my immortality. Not in a head-in-the-sand kind of way, but more like peeping through the doorhole occasionally, just to see who’s out there long enough for me to recluse myself inside and shut the blinds.

This is where my insecurities and anxiety—the “What if’s?” and “Why not me?” chasms uproot themselves in the catatonic feeds of social news. Where I’m reminded that I had cancer; a fact that I’m intentionally trying to rescind to the back of my mind. Where I feel suffocating guilt that I survived while others have not.

I find myself immersed in this sad, parallel social media universe where the majority of the world is healthy, flourishing, rich, beautiful… and the latter portion is sick and dying. The uber highs of social elitism where solipsism is the reigning religion, and the radical lows where only the sick can see the laurel-crowned healthy.

Scrolling IG… women having babies, couples on vacation in Monte Carlo. People in bathing suits posing in a mirror, filled up by their own narcissistic fascination which spills over the brim of their Fit-Tea shaker bottle that they were paid to advertise. I continue scrolling with mechanical engrossment. Not in a cynical way, but in an envious way as I absorb myself senselessly, mindlessly, and scroll through the lives of strangers. Social media is supposed to connect people, but more-and-more I feel like I am an extraterrestrial who is enrolled in the study of cultural anthropology via Instagram.

It’s unnatural, to observe people like we’re bird watchers. Like internet surveillance officers without boundaries. But I still do it. Posts about recurrences and deaths become a horrifying obsession because it feels like I’m living it with them. That could be me. My innermost horrors sustained in this fixation.

Recently, I found two small lumps on my collarbone lymph nodes. Don’t Google it, they’ll tell you you have cancer. I spent a few days maniacally Googling and obsessively Instagram stalking for any relevant circumstances. Drowning in panic. It happens to all of us. After calming down, I remembered that the internet is a dumpster fire full of shit and fake information which can not diagnose anything except stupidity. I obediently sought out my oncologist’s opinion, who was confidently unalarmed. The cervical lymph nodes support the mouth/salivary glands, and my recent cold was likely why they felt swollen. We all crave those sweet, saccharin words of consolation from our doctors.  I’ve requested a PET scan; although, I can’t bring myself to actually schedule it because any notion of truth that my worst nightmares may actually become reality has left me frozen in apprehension.  Maybe it’s not cancer, but I know my body better than anybody with three degrees hanging on their office wall.

The anxiety of a recurrence never leaves a cancer survivor. But I’ve found ways to placate these fears by avoiding social media—one of my triggers. I realized that my valuable time spent alive—which is a gift— was being occupied by the lives of strangers. Wasted on the scrolling. Wasted on memes, celebrity gossip, political banter. Idle time spent malnourishing myself on social media was becoming a crutch for procrastination.

So that’s where I’ve been: circumventing the growing hedonistic obsession with Instagram. Avoiding the captivating allure of all social media.  All for my own sanity. Not because I don’t kind of love it… in a grossly self-indulgent way, but because it’s side effects –emotional anemia, phony confidence —attempt to mold me into a creature detached from reality. I’ve recently given more time to things that I value. Like, talking to real people in person (not on social media or text.) Writing. Although, I recently went 2 months without opening my laptop. Traveling. Reading. Making crafty shit. Stuff we used to do before the internet was invented. Riding bikes, going swimming. Remember that Oregon Trail floppy disk game? Those were the days. All of the people in your wagon have died of dysentery. Please press spacebar to continue.

Thank you to the people who have reached out to me and noticed that I haven’t posted much on social media and asked how I am doing. I’m doing great. I’m doing actual life stuff! Like… I got my motorcycle license—ya know, incase there’s ever an end-of-the-world post-apocalyptic scenario where a motorcycle is my only way to escape flesh-eating zombies. Time wisely spent, if you ask me. I’m using this phase on the dark side of the moon for more “me time.” More mindfulness. More praying for a cure. More holding the door for strangers. More talking… to actual people.

Less Google. Less social media. Less comparison. Less fucks given.