The One Where I Registered for Cancer

I always assumed I’d have a registry one day.

You know… the kind with a champagne flute set and passive-aggressive hand towels that say his and hers (even though I’d probably end up using both).

But here I am.

Still single.

No bridal shower.

No baby bump.

No Pinterest board titled “Rachel’s Rustic Autumn Wedding.”

Just… cancer.

And wouldn’t you know it?

They make gift registries for that too.

Mine is live.

And you—yes, you, the person whose wedding I shot in 102-degree heat while dodging bees and your drunk uncle—you can finally return the favor.

Because this isn’t just any registry.

This is the registry.

The one I never wanted, but kind of need.

Not a flood of romance. Just… a literal flood.

Let’s rewind.

It didn’t happen the day I was diagnosed.

It happened a few months before, when I returned home after placing my father in a nursing home—his mind folding in on itself like damp newspaper. I walked in, emotionally gutted, to find the ceiling leaking, the walls puckered, and my landlord looking like he’d just tried to baptize the entire building in reverse.

He’d hired an uninsured roofer who thought “power washing” a leaking roof for eight hours was a genius idea.

It wasn’t.

I lost a mattress, some keepsakes, half my belongings, and—briefly—my will to stay civil.

Then my insurance company denied the claim because black mold was involved, and apparently mold is the cancer of renters’ rights: nobody wants to touch it.

So I gave up the apartment.

And now I might give up the car.

At this point I’m just slowly downsizing until I fit into an urn.

What do you need?

A lot of people have asked what I need (okay, maybe four people, tops—but let’s not split hairs).

And instead of sending out cryptic text replies like “a time machine” or “a new asshole,” I made a registry.

It’s hosted by WeGotThis.org—a site for cancer patients like me, who are living in the liminal space between “you’ve got this!” and “please help me, I can’t afford paper towels.”

Everything on it is something I can have.

Which, fun twist, is kind of a big deal when you’re on a highly restrictive cancer diet where even ginger tea gets side-eyed.

It’s full of essentials—gas cards, supplements, broth, soft clothes, warm socks, toothpaste that doesn’t taste like despair.

No frills. No fondue set.

Just survival, in a gift-wrapped box.

A gentle nudge from your perpetually single, cancer-having friend…

To all of you I’ve Venmo’d for baby showers, flown across states to photograph your engagements, or quietly supported while you planned your gender reveals (why did we let those become a thing?)—

Consider this my turn.

This is my “registry moment.”

There won’t be a white dress.

There won’t be a diaper cake.

There might be a colostomy bag, but I promise not to make it a centerpiece.

So if you’ve ever wondered what you can do for someone with cancer:

This.

This is it.

Here’s the link. Click it.

Send love, send snacks, send toilet paper.

It’s like a wedding registry, but instead of china I’m asking for film rolls to document this stage of my life fiercely.

Because love doesn’t always come with a ring.

Sometimes, it shows up in the form of a $25 gift card and a message that says,

“You’re still here. And I see you.”

A blog post by Rachel Smak on grief, loss, and lessons from stage 3C rectal cancer