Update: I’m Still Not Dead. But I Am Different.
As the evening sun dips behind the silhouettes of Idaho’s rugged landscapes, I find myself reflecting on a truth that's both unsettling and enlightening. I’m at stage 3c cancer. The diagnosis is stark, a brutal punctuation in the narrative of my life that demands a full stop and a hard, introspective look.
In the past weeks, I’ve navigated the labyrinth of insurance paperwork, finally securing the coverage I need in this new state that I now call home. Idaho’s calm has been both a sanctuary and a stark backdrop to the turmoil within. My days are lined up with appointments that aren't just commitments on a calendar but are battles in a war for more sunsets like this one.
Cancer, with its cruel clarity, forces a reckoning of priorities. For me, it has been a profound lesson in what truly matters—health and the wealth of relationships. I’ve put a pause on my business, a decision that was as necessary as it was heart-wrenching. Entrepreneurship was my dream, but facing cancer, I've learned dreams are just the sketches of life; health and love are the foundations.
Moving to Idaho was more than a change of scenery; it was a shedding of the superfluous. The physical act of decluttering mirrored an internal purge—a stripping away of what was non-essential, leaving room for the vital. I've come to understand the things we own, at times, own us, distract us from the essence of life. In letting go, I’ve grasped more fully what I cannot afford to lose.
They say cancer changes you, and perhaps it’s true. It has unraveled me in many ways, only to weave me back stronger in places I never knew needed fortifying. It’s a journey through shadowed valleys with the stark peaks of mortality always on the horizon. Yet, in this landscape, I find a version of myself that can endure, adapt, and continue.
Each appointment, each treatment, is a step. And with each step, I reprioritize, reevaluate, and learn. The people who stand by me, the doctors who guide me, and the strangers who smile at me—they are my beacons. The pain, the fear, and the uncertainty are real, but so too is the support, the love, and the resilience.
Cancer isn't just a disease; it's a teacher—harsh but honest. It teaches you to live in moments, to see the fragile threads that connect hours to eternity. It's taught me that every day is a delicate dance of light and shadow, and in every dance, there’s something significant to take away.
As I sit here, watching the night take over, I am different—tempered by trials, yes, but also enlightened by them. I am not just surviving; I am learning from the most exacting teacher I’ve ever had. I am still here, still fighting, still learning. And for now, that’s enough.
A blog post by Rachel Smak on grief, loss, and lessons from stage 3C rectal cancer
