Greetings,

Invasive Ductal Carcinoma of the left breast was my diagnosis in August 2022. The day would forever alter the course of my life. I am writing to you today as a testament to strength, courage, and resilience. Not just for myself, but all those affected by this disease. I write to continue to encourage myself in this literal fight for my life.

I began to write not long after my radiation treatments ended. I had a few poems written and a short story from a few years ago. A relative visiting from out of town happened to mention that She was an editor. At that time, she had a small side business as a proofreader and editor. I couldn’t believe it. I’ve known her all my life and never knew. So I took a chance, a leap of faith some would say. I mentioned, ever so meekly, that “I have written a book.”

She was ecstatic! She had a couple of authors as clients and believed in the power of writing. This made me anxious and excited all at the same time. The next day she shared with me her thoughts and encouraged me to continue writing.

Since that conversation, I started blogging and posting positivity, which helped with the dread I felt inside at times. Writing my thoughts was a much-needed form of therapy. With my diagnosis, treatments, and all that I experienced in 2022 and 2023, I definitely needed a positive outlet. Life had become chaotic and some of my poor decisions made things even harder.

Now that I’ve gone through the storm clouds and darkness, I’m even more grateful for my life. I’m thankful for everyday I’m blessed to see. Living with purpose and the hope of the future and whatever life has in store . My desire now is to spread a message of self-love, peace and light. To take back that which we often lose when dealing with a sickness such as cancer, our autonomy.

Yours Truly,

Hurt and broken
I could not see.
No more taking
only giving.
I’m now the king
loved and adored.
Patient, obscured.
Like a driftwood
Now found ashore.
I’ve left behind
bad parts of me.
Rising above
so found and free.
At a stalemate
I fought myself
at rock bottom.
Now, at the top
we always say,
“Don’t you worry,
yeah we got ’em”.
Experience
built, never bought.
lessons they’ve taught.
From good to bad
and bad to good.
On second thought
although I should,
a favorite
experience
I have not got.
Learn from them all,
That’s what I’s taught.

There were times in my life,
When I really felt like my existence was unimportant, like I was just back ground music while being stuck inside of my own head as I went about my day, in a world where everything was so overwhelming, I screamed inside of the TV, they saw me but laughed & hit the mute button. It was as though nothing was real or even existed, much less mattered.

My life was one giant TV & I was looking straight at my life like a spiraling, emotional roller coaster some might also have watched as a late night soap opera but none of it was real, much less valid.

I was just there unattached as I stand there watching my life & family pass me by at a young age.
I suppose I overlooked a lot of things I don’t even remember.

My dad would curse God & break things.
My mother was indeed a narcissist so these reactions would fire her up & I was the one who took care of her during her darkest hours of addiction.

I was there but was framed a lot from my father. I was called words like “freak” or “retarded” I learned at a young age not to cry out as victim everytime these darkest hours would return to me again.
I was told to silence my feelings unless I had something worth saying so I quit speaking & shut myself down.

There is a lifetime of Hell beneath the surface, so much blood & lava I spilled along the way after I left that place.

I look back at my ashes that I bled now & I saw a mirror & myself & everything that was ever behind me looking right back at me.
I had no choice but to turn around, to travel & face it all over again.
The same trail of blood I just wanted to leave behind, I had no choice but to go back to that place of anguish just to find myself all over again.

I cross paths again of times when I experienced fires so wild,
The smoke was so strong & I had no choice but to leave that past version of myself behind.

As the smoke began to clear I see this little girl crying on the porch steps of a home that is burning, it’s literally on fire but she’s still sitting on the steps, I have so many questions but wonder why she is just sitting there on the porch steps of a home that is falling down into flames behind her.

I watched as the ashes pepper down, surrounding us both I took hold of that little girl & I held onto her as though it was all a strong storm.

I finally held her face in my hands & I saw her tears run down from her blue eyes as we locked eyes.

She could speak again because she finally felt safe within her world of chaos.

She told me that I needed to go back into that burning house & find her mother who is very sick & that it’s up to me to save her.

I go inside to find that her dad is gone & this woman is sitting on the sofa watching the latest soap opera of my life, crosses built with fire & agony covers the walls & I ask her if she is afraid of dying as she lights up another cigarette.

She stares at the TV with judgment in her eyes & she tells me that I can do better.

Everything blows up into flames & it sends me back into a completely different timeline & I was not aware that I even exist in, this is my life now?

I didn’t believe in God up until now… I finally feel alive.

I have created my own path to meet eye to eye with God & what that all even means.

Growing up, I was always a sinner, I was born within a world of sin so without salvation through Jesus Christ I would only burn in hell.

It brought me so many questions & pain as a little kid I would look at the cross on my bedroom wall & pray to God at night that I was good enough & would someday make it into heaven.

Some days I just wanted to die so I could go to heaven & be in a better place.

I detached myself from organised religion all together after going through many dark phases beginning at a young age, younger versions of myself rebuked the thought of God or what it even means to be moving all of these piles of destroyed items aside from what I was raised to believe & finding my own path through spirituality. 🖤🔥

A college graduation ceremony,
The celebration of
Hours and hours spent studying,
Working student janitor jobs,
Barely sleeping or maintaining a social life,
Driven by passion and encouraged by professors and peers.
This a defining moment I haven’t experienced,
My college journey cut short by
A doctor’s visit,
A new orange prescription bottle that felt like a cinderblock in my backpack.
A series of events that I was sure would make everyone see me as
A failure, lazy, without determination.

I moved back into my parents home,
Like a puppy without a treat,
My tail tucked between my legs.
I struggled to find my purpose,
My place in a town I thought I’d left behind.

As fate, or the internet, would have it,
I met someone.
They saw parts of me that I was ashamed of,
And told me how bright they shined.
They laid bare past relationships full of betrayal and heartbreak,
And I held them when they finally gave themselves the space to cry for how they were hurt.
We slow danced in the kitchen,
To old school jazz,
While sweet potatoes cooked in the oven..
And I saw days stretching ahead
With this beautiful being
This other half of my soul.

Wedding bells pealed,
Vows were written and tearfully exchanged.
Families drew together to celebrate,
Dancing ruled the night!
But not for me.
I sat at another wedding reception, thinking of the text message
Telling me things weren’t going to work out.
Another moment I once thought would be so defining,
Slipping away from my grasp.

The more I grow,
The more I discover myself,
The more I lean into even the darkest parts of my mind and heart,
The more I think that my “most defining days” may be made up of simple, quiet moments.
Of the times I have held myself on the bathroom floor,
And through all the loss remind myself
I am worthy of love
And great things are still ahead for me.

To my supervisor:

I wonder how much we remember about each other before formally meeting. Predicting what happens next is less difficult. Working with you at the underfunded rural nursing home every Sunday made sure of that. I can count the times on one hand when I walked onto the floors overflowing with wheelchairs and the malodor of overcooked eggs, and it was not a staff member’s first day. I loved meeting new people, so I never minded.

You knew my hours as an activity assistant were long, but also that I couldn’t just leave when my shifts properly ended. At first, the motivation was to finish up tasks, like charting attendance, wiping up spilled juice, or finding missing puzzle pieces. As time went on, I found myself staying on my own accord. When commuting home, I would give myself a headache thinking of all things I wished I would have done or said. I never knew if or when I would see the residents again. Many were old and received treatments in the adjacent hospital. When one left, it tended to be for good.

Staying late let me provide companionship to the residents, who welcomed me into their family. In the literal sense, they all were family. The nursing home was in a town with more general stores than stoplights. You would know better than anyone. You were once babysat by that husband-wife couple who always threatened to break off their marriage through the paper-thin walls separating their rooms. Other residents worked at the hotel together. Still, some were retired professors, who no doubt passed down notes to my instructors who taught me at the college nearby.

Knowing about the interconnectivity among residents made me want to stay even longer. An aspiring healthcare provider then, it was devastating to witness residents interact with each other one week and then ignore each other the next. Dementia stole their abilities to recognize and remember. There was only so much “Good Old Days” magazine reading I could do to help them know who I was until my efforts became futile too. But it felt impossible to just stop caring. Sunday could never come fast enough. My weeks were preoccupied not with my chemistry homework but with thinking about what our favorite fiery, retired pharmacist would want for her manicure or if the sunroom was spacious enough for all residents to enjoy a magic show.

On occasion, the break room was my retreat. Located off the busiest wing, it provided little reprieve from resident squabbling, therapy dogs barking, and nursing demands. What is did give me was a place to collect myself after noticing a cart with a basket of bananas, water, and a note scrawled with “Processing the death of a loved one” parked in front of an octogenarian’s room. As my shifts went on, I noticed you and other staff members slipping in silently to do the same. The sadness and stressors of it all made us quickly turn from strangers to friends.

You and I grew to share a special bond. Each morning, I would find you shuffling through shelves and writing down learning objectives. Planning and executing the perfect activity were paramount, even if we were the only ones who noticed. I soon understood the sense of purpose and satisfaction your job gave you after you tearfully explained the hard times that you experienced in your financially unstable, misguided younger days. “I just want to own a house for me and my kids,” you said. I would agree as my eyes swelled with tears.

I grew up in a privileged family. My parents’ house large is enough for me and my five siblings to each have our own bedrooms twice over. I attended that well-funded college miles down the road. Working at the nursing home showed me how malleable my life was. When working, I was someone who cared about people who barely knew me and worked alongside people like you whose life experiences were so far removed from mine. But, nowhere else would I have been able to gain the depth of perspectives on the things that really mattered.

I cannot remember my last day working. I always thought I would be back after my spring break, but the COVID-19 pandemic had other plans. However, I do remember the day of my interview, when I toured the community space to the chorus of fifty feet thumping out “When the ants go marching home.” You, even before you became my supervisor, looked up as I entered and grinned widely, never missing a beat.

Now, I stay awake at night thinking of all the stories that not meeting you and everyone at nursing home earlier would ensure would never be told.

In hopes we meet again soon,
Jaya