My father's leukemia is now an aggressive lymphoma known as Richter's Syndrome. This new reality arrived in stages and was only recently identified. Despite the gradual decline in his health over recent months, the suddenness of this new, refined diagnosis is overwhelming. Prevailing sadness is married to a desire to do anything to make this situation "better." There is nothing I can do. I am unable to fix the cancer. In the nexus between grief and energy, it is where those two emotions meet that frustration grows.
Cancer is ugly. It is not merely a matter of aesthetics or a glib observation. The ugliness of cancer is profound, insidious, and total. To understand its ugliness is to confront the essence of human fragility, mortality, and the stark reality of our corporeal existence.
Picture the scene: a robust man, once the very embodiment of vitality, is reduced to a spectral figure. His skin, once suffused with the ruddy glow of health, now hangs in sallow folds, a sickly canvas that charts the progress of his illness. The vibrancy in his eyes is extinguished, replaced by a dull gaze. This is cancer's calling card— an aggressive erosion of the physical self, a Kafka-esque metamorphosis that lays bare the relentless decay beneath the surface.
I do not linger by the beside out of morbid fascination but to highlight the unflinching reality of cancer's assault on the body. The disease is a thief, stealing away not just health but identity. Each symptom, each invasive treatment, strips away layers of dignity. The body, once a vessel of strength and beauty, becomes a grotesque battleground, a site of continuous, unforgiving struggle.
But the ugliness of cancer does not stop at the physical. It reaches deeper into the emotional and psychological realms, corrupting relationships and corroding the very foundations of human connection. Consider the family, friends, and loved ones drawn into the disease's orbit. They, too, become casualties, their lives distorted by the constant specter of suffering. Once easy and full of laughter, conversations become laden with unspoken fears and heavy silences. The disease erects an invisible barrier, a chasm of pain that words cannot bridge.
The endless rounds of appointments, the sterile corridors of hospitals, and the labyrinthine healthcare systems seem to prioritize efficiency over empathy. There is a grim humor in how the medical world reduces human suffering to a series of codes, MyChart messages, and protocols - each one turning the patient into a case file and the human into an abstraction.
In this sterile environment, the language of medicine becomes a cruel dialect, stripping the emotional weight from words. "Metastasis," "treatment plan," "inoperable," "palliative"— these terms, so clinical, so devoid of warmth, mask the brutal realities they signify. There is an absurdity here, a dissonance between the cold efficiency of medical jargon and the visceral, human experience of illness.
And yet, cancer's ugliest truth lies in its inescapable reminder of our mortality. It is the ultimate equalizer, indifferent to wealth, status, or power. In the presence of cancer, we are all reduced to our most basic, most vulnerable selves. It forces us to confront the inevitability of death, the fragility of life, and the ultimate futility of our earthly pursuits.
There is also a grim beauty in the face of such overwhelming ugliness. The resilience of the human spirit, the capacity for love and connection, even while suffering, becomes all the more poignant. There is dignity in facing the horror of cancer head-on, in refusing to let it define us, even as it destroys us.
Ultimately, the ugliness of cancer is a mirror, reflecting the most profound truths about our existence. It shows us our fears, our vulnerabilities, and our inevitable decline. But within this reflection, there is also a glimmer of something profound— the enduring strength of the human will, the capacity to find meaning and beauty even in the darkest times. In the heart of cancer’s ugliness, there lies a reminder of what it means to be truly alive.
I am sorry to hear that, Richard. When I was a child, a friend of mine lost his mother to cancer at the age of ten. I remember the kindness of that woman and what the disease did to that family. Yet you find the words to address such a difficult subject. With all my support in such a terrible experience 🙏
Sorry to hear about your father. Cancer as you say is truly a thief to all. My thoughts to you and yours at this difficult time. x