To Bear Witness

Now What? The Survivor’s Limbo

Today, I had four things on my agenda. I only managed two. One was a meeting with the Baltimore VA HUD/VASH caseworker about suitable, sustainable housing. The other was with my Business Employment Specialist, discussing possible placement in city, state, or federal positions—anything feasible and stable.

When I first got here, I was supposed to build a solid treatment team. I also needed to take care of myself. That was the goal: to stay alive a little longer. Funny how quickly survival becomes a moving target.

I missed my appointment with Dr. B at Johns Hopkins—poor time management, maybe, or maybe something deeper. I’ve already put over 13,000 miles on my 2016 Nissan just trying to juggle this life.

I told G today, “I don’t want to talk about cancer. I don’t want any more updates. I feel good, and I’m sticking with that.” She didn’t like my attitude. She told me to pick up the phone and reschedule my appointment.

So, I did. But I felt pretty hard-core for a moment, running my mouth like I didn’t care. Truth is, I care too much. I just can’t afford to care every minute of the day anymore.

I keep asking myself: What kind of job do I want? Can I commit to something when I know interruptions are likely—health issues, family needs, life? Should I get the best job I can? Should I work hard for a few years and save everything I can? This may mean missing out—again—on time with my girls.

Do I trust that Social Security will be there for them? What if something happens to me in the next 5–10 years? Will the legal system catch up in time to protect them? Will Maryland put safeguards in place if I’m not here?

These are the fears that often drown out everything else.

I wish I could meet more cancer survivors who sit with thoughts like these. I’ve found community in online multiple myeloma support groups, but I avoid them when I can. I only check in for treatment tips. Losing people you’ve never met in person can crush even the most optimistic survivor.

My educational background is scattered—Fine Arts, Human Services, Graphic Design. I’ve collected degrees like I was trying to find an identity through achievement. I wasn’t blissfully unaware—I just didn’t know myself. Only this year, I have begun to grasp my own patterns. I see my defaults. I also notice the way I speak to myself. Rewiring all of that is slow and messy work, and hard to quantify.

I’ve been living with a terminal diagnosis for four years. From the day I heard “the big C,” saw the tumor on the scan, everything changed. And somehow, now—physically and even mentally—I feel better than I have in almost 20 years. But that peace is fragile, always under threat.

The animals seem to know. They gravitate to me like they did the last time I was really sick. It makes me wonder if they sense something I don’t. Part of me feels like I don’t deserve to feel okay. I’ve lost over 40 pounds since October. I’m active, I work out, but sitting still is still hard. I’ve struggled with weight, stress, and identity for over a decade. Now, as it starts to shift, the MM (Multiple Myeloma) monkey on my back begins whispering again.

Did I miss today’s appointment on purpose?

I don’t want to acknowledge MM anymore. I don’t want to see another lab result. I’m afraid that just when something finally goes right, the cancer will come back swinging.

All I want is to enjoy each day. I want to enjoy my daughters, enjoy life. I wonder what it would feel like to choose a career path. I wonder what it would be like to select a degree program. I want to believe—really believe—that the time and effort wouldn’t be wasted. I’ve always wanted to help people. I didn’t care about being famous or rich, just useful and at peace. But life became a storm. It started with fourteen years in a hurricane, followed by four in a tornado. Now we’re picking through the wreckage. We are trying to figure out what’s ours. We are also trying to identify what just blew in from someone else’s yard.

I want to believe that finishing my Social Work program will lead to a stable life—helping others, supporting my girls. But if I pour myself into school again and get sick before I finish, what happens?

Volunteering would be enough—if I didn’t have kids to support. But I do.

I don’t want to be a Jack-of-all-trades anymore. I want to choose something meaningful and stick with it, not because I have to, but because I can.

I survived. So now what?

Is this survivor’s guilt? Or just the longing to live without so much stress? I don’t want a mansion, just a home. A yard. A workshop. A space to create. A legacy to leave for my girls.

That’s all I want. For them to be proud of me someday.

I hope God hears these thoughts. These prayers.