In June 2019, I became two: a before and an after. My pre-diagnosis self constituted one, the post-diagnosis the other. In many ways, those two selves were contradictory. Healthy (if we can ever really be) and sick, respectively. Independent and dependent. Mobile and confined. Assured and full of doubt. 

But, over time, I started to wonder if those contradictory selves were actually limited to life before cancer and after diagnosis. After some thought, I began to realize that life BC and AD each had their own competing realities. As I reflected, I noticed many oppositions in myself. Within me are two, often competing, halves of one whole. Simultaneously, I am ambitious and ambivalent; confident and doubtful; reserved and outgoing. I enjoy music and silence; talking and listening. But it was cancer that forced me to confront those quirks—and my sense of self. 

Cancer upended the place I held in the world. At age twenty-three, I experienced physical displacement. After the diagnosis, I moved back into my childhood home with my parents. Despite this physical dislocation, I found sources of comfort and support from family. But emotionally, I found myself increasingly disoriented. The greatest strain came from inhabiting two selves. And I couldn’t quite find a reconciliation between them. 

As my physical condition improved, my emotions did not keep pace. When first diagnosed, I could hardly walk down the driveway and back without assistance. I sat in a wheelchair pushed by my dad during those early doctors’ appointments and chemotherapy treatments. Physical limitations served as an incessant reminder of a detour from that past life. But slowly, I could walk farther on my own. My stamina improved. I even took to swimming again. Despite this very real and tangible progress, though, I sensed a void. The optimism generated by physical improvement struggled to overpower the simmering pessimism, which threatened to boil over. 

I returned to those BC days. I compared myself to friends my age who had “made it.” I longed for that prototypical twentysomething lifestyle. On occasion, I resented the one I had AD. I had grown accustomed to city life, after earning two degrees, and missed the opportunities that had come about as a result. No longer could I easily visit a museum or head out to a happy hour. Going to baseball games were beyond reach. I had worked hard. I missed dining out with friends. I recounted commuting to work with a tinge of nostalgia. I wanted it all back. I thought I had earned it—deserved it, even. 

Maybe not. 

Continuing to grapple with cancer, I discovered a nearsightedness in my priorities. A bit of introspection was in order. I intentionally enumerated my values and articulated new goals. I came to see cancer as a reset—a luxury not everyone has. Grieving the life I had lost did not preclude me from embracing the life I was currently living. 

And yet, a bit of honesty: sometimes I question whether the fruits of this contemplation are just a bunch of malarky. Some days, I feel defeated by an overwhelming sense of loss. I yearn for that past self, with all its conformity and fickle security. I guess there’s a bit of contradiction in clarity, too. 

Serendipitously, I came across A Fresh Chapter nearly two years into my cancer journey. The Ignite Experience helped me articulate what I had been feeling: Living in Contradiction. As the phrase suggests, living in contradiction is an ongoing burden that can, after all, be harnessed for some good. 

Employing this insight has helped me accept the reality of cancer and understand those conflicting thoughts. Try as I might, I can’t ignore cancer and its ominous foreboding, its haunting shadow, that looming cloud. Don’t forget the umbrella!, I constantly urge myself—as if I need a reminder. Life, after all, is full of uncertainty. 

Grappling with life’s inherent contradictions has also made life with cancer easier. In my case, living with an incurable cancer is a challenge rife with contradiction. I’m making progress, but I’m not cured—and may never be. And still, I eagerly report to treatment.

As I pursue physical treatment, I strive to attend to the equally important emotional one, too. I try to reduce the internal emotional friction. Inertia will not be my reality. These contradictions are okay, mostly because they are natural. Giving myself the opportunity to explore those contradictions has been an invaluable way to cope. In meditating on these clashes, I have found a middle way—a reconciliation.

When I take time to contemplate my situation, I often feel overwhelmed by the cacophony of competing realities. Life is not a zero-sum game. But coming to terms with living in contradiction—letting go of what Susan David calls rigidity—has moved me closer to addressing the sources of my discontent. Seeing the broader tension, in other words, has opened the space I needed to navigate the intricacies of this new journey.

James has been living with cancer for two years. He reads, writes, and studies American history. When searching for an escape, James turns to the kitchen, where he bakes breads, cakes, and other assorted treats.