Community Connection

I guess I’ve been handling those days since elementary school. As a Millennial, there’s been more than my necessary share of THEM DAYS— where global unrest, staged terrorist attacks, unarmed bodies of victims plastered across my TV and social media screens, pedophilic dictators posing as world leaders staging coups and violent takeovers, and enough reality TV shows to dull my intelligence and reaction speeds became the backdrop of everyday life.

 

Those were days we all lived through… some of us with more impact than others. But life had also sprinkled in a few of them days… in my personal life as well. Like almost dying TWICE (a decade apart). Or my brother’s brutal murder. Or losing my grandmother and my home less than six months apart. Or my father dying. Those days were certainly “ah day,” and they altered who I thought I knew myself to be.

 

I’ve always been a level-headed, light-hearted, and quick-witted person, able to craft a punchline with quick accuracy and skill. My humor was filled with just enough darkness and comedic bite that it usually sufficed the need for deeper dialogue. It was usually enough to disarm the nerves of those I loved—just enough so that I wouldn’t have to need to hold space for their discomforts… and my own at the same time. My humor was just good enough where I could fill up empty spaces with laughter instead of worried pity. My humor was enough to make others around me believe I was alright, handling things as best I could.

 

But the truth is, my humor didn’t change the silent fears I held. Nothing masks that away—not even the best-delivered punchline. That fear sticks to your soul like stubborn belly fat—indestructible and heavy. Pun certainly intended.

 

And with “ah day” like today… one that started in normalcy and ended up being life-altering for me… using my humor didn’t at all help quiet my fear.

 

Today I learned that I have cancer.

 

And before I lean into my human desire to tap into my trauma-learned defenses and say something here to calm every reader’s worry about how I’ll be alright, I want to sit with that statement in all its heaviness: I have cancer.

 

That feels uncomfortable as f… to hold. Even though I know the type of cancer I’ve just learned I have will most likely not lead to my death, is completely “curable” with surgery (that I’ve already been prepped to expect), and my life expectancy after this will not be greatly impacted… I still have cancer.

 

And I have a four-year-old child: my entire world. And a fiancé I love deeply. And family and friends I adore. And self-interests and dreams and goals. And a body I’ve loved, hated, carried, and cared for —all of which will forever be impacted by the fact that I have cancer.

 

And all I could do in the moment of finding out was make a joke—to swallow my sorrow, my worry, and my guilt. I told my fiancé to make me a “coochie cancer queen” t-shirt, and we quipped back and forth about whether my vagina would be an appropriate logo for the shirt. I told my best friend Sadiquah, I was going to apply for a disability sticker and finally move up in the parking rank with my “touch of cancer.” I even morbidly joked about others having the “benefit” of more serious versions of cancer—and that I, too, wanted a “month and parade” for the type I got. Sick, dark, and twisted humor of a traumatized Millennial.

 

But none of those jokes stopped my fear. None of those things I said earlier in the day have comforted me. And now I’m awake, long before the sun of the new day… writing these weighted words in the way I’ve always been surprisingly brave enough to do—telling the truth in ways that often hurt the most.

​

And the truth is this: I have cancer.

And I am afraid.

 

I will have to get surgery that will alter me medically, and I’m afraid. I’m afraid I won’t know the new me, and that we might not like each other very much in the beginning. I’m afraid of more surgeries, all while currently healing from two (I had surgery almost a week ago). I’m afraid there might be a small window of chance cancer is laying dormant in other parts of me, waiting for me to breathe easier again… before revealing itself.

 

I am afraid for Trinity, my child, and everyone who knows and loves me. I’m afraid for me—and every single person who has ever had “ah day” like the day I had.

 

I know in the most logical spaces of my consciousness that it will be okay. I know in the deepest corners of my faith that I will be carried through this with the help and love of God, all my Ancestors, and my Spiritual team. I know emotionally that I’ll still be loved and cared for in spite of who I become because of this, even in the hardest moments. These truths I know—and still, I am afraid.

 

And for the first time in, perhaps, forever… I don’t want to act like I am not afraid. I want to be scared and safe enough to get through it without the forced humor, without having to hold others’ emotions with regard, without trying to avoid or dismiss the impact of this moment. I just want to feel… it all.

 

And so I write. And so I feel. And so it will be.

 

Today is the day… ah day… and I’m not, yet… okay.

 

Thanks for reading. The Cost of Freedom will always be Faith. So grateful for my endlessly supply...

​

Love yall deep. -Yani