As the end of summer approached, Washington, DC descended into the heavy discomfort of yet another humid day. I arrived at my desk on Capitol Hill for the last few days of my internship. The summer of 2017 had been, for a student of history in the Historian’s Office, an educational one; with each passing day, history was made, and the media (and the public) clamored to learn whether these unfolding events had any precedent.

With Librarian of Congress Carla Hayden in 2017.

In a conference room, not too far away, the House Financial Services Committee convened to hear testimony from then-Secretary of the Treasury Steven Mnuchin. In one memorable exchange, Representative Maxine Waters, of California, and ranking member of the committee, confronted Mnuchin over his department’s refusal to respond to a letter she had sent, questioning Trump’s financial relationship with Russia. Like many called to testify before Congress, he offered a response without addressing the question, hoping instead to exhaust the remaining time. Representative Waters, however, invoked a procedural rule to take back what was her due. “Reclaiming my time,” she insisted. 

Two summers later, I laid in a hospital bed, squirming in pain. After a nine-day stay, the team of doctors had concluded that the cause of my pain was multiple myeloma, a blood cancer—one I had never of. From the bed, and with the not-so-welcome assistance of my phone, I read and saw the terrific time many others were having. Friends and family enjoyed the season’s offerings, as I struggled to walk around the house. “Reclaiming my time,” I thought to myself—more aspiration than action. 

Representative Water’s pithy phrase, straight from the procedural rules, has become something of a maxim. Cancer has robbed me of comfort, assurance, pleasure, and time. (It has also proved to be something of an opportunity—but I’ll save that for another post.) The lives of those around me have progressed, as mine has seemingly stalled. Those lives seem linear (but, of course, they aren’t!), while I continue down this disjointed path, so removed from the typical experience of a twenty-year-old. 

During my stay in the hospital, I yearned to experience life outside of that suffocating room. The laps around the oncology wing, morphine drip at my side, left me wanting. “Can I please go outside?” I begged one doctor. She relented and ‘prescribed’ an order of “Sunshine Therapy”—itself another mantra which I now hold dear. I settled into the wheelchair, pushed around the block, alternately, by my father and sister. I breathed in the fresh air. The brief escape was itself a way to reclaim those moments lost to the static and generic hospital room. 

Not long after, I began treatment as part of a clinical trial, having learned that the standard course failed to control my disease. The novel immunotherapy drug, which started my life anew, left me without the typical bouts of chemo-induced nausea and radiation-related fatigue. Finally, I had the energy to reclaim my time. In March of 2020, I went on a trip with my sister to Annapolis, Maryland, where I sat in a crowd. In the following days, the world shut down, as we began to realize the threat posed by the emergent coronavirus. I became a cancer patient living during a pandemic. 

These past few years, pre-pandemic through the present, have been filled with moments when I yearn to Reclaim My Time. Immunocompromised, I have ruefully sent my regrets to invitations. I’m taunted by the specter of normality. As much as I want to behave as my pre-cancer self, I can’t. 

And yet, from the confines of my bubble, I have found ways to reclaim my time. In particular, I have found comfort in cooking—for myself and others. I prepare meals for those facing adverse health conditions—some of whom had done the same for me during the weeks following my diagnosis. I bake for neighbors and friends. But cooking has done more than simply nourish; it has transported me beyond my physical limitations.

While both cancer and the pandemic have largely stripped me of the ability to travel – a tremendous loss, these restrictions have fostered some creativity on my part. I’ll bring a taste of that desired travel experience to me, I think to myself, through cooking. I’ve prepared foods of my ancestral home of the Philippines, of bucket-list destinations, like Shanghai and Thailand and northern Italy. 

I’ve also found connection in many different support groups and communities. Drawn to A Fresh Chapter’s emphasis on travel and volunteering, I’ve learned key themes, which have allowed me to explore my thoughts and emotions and to meet others who likewise draw on these themes to overcome. I’ve reconnected with friends and have rekindled past hobbies and interests. I’ve self-prescribed many orders for Sunshine Therapy. These sources of inspiration have pushed me to reconsider my experience, as one that I can’t control but can attempt to reclaim.

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.