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I Had Cancer


When I look at this picture, I used to just see "sick" (because I remember feeling sick and like I didn't look well or healthy or beautiful), but my friend saw "breathtaking" when I sent it to her and so that's what I'm choosing to see now too.

I’ve tried writing this post on more than one occasion. And every time I ferociously erase all that I’d typed and decide that maybe it doesn’t need to be typed at all. But then I remember just how many people have told me that Jesus is going to use my story. This one, other ones, ones that haven’t even happened yet. All of them. He’s going to use them all. But only if I own them. Only if I share them.

Buckle up. This one isn’t pretty. And no amount of eloquent wording is going to make it any prettier. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Full disclosure: whether you were the first person I told when I found out or you didn’t even know I was sick until you clicked on this post, you will read things you didn’t know before now. I didn’t not tell you because I didn’t think you couldn’t handle them. I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t handle seeing the look on your face when I did.

I had cancer.

Yeah, cancer is a bitch.

We found it in October. I’d been for multiple tests throughout the fall because I’d been sick for weeks. Pneumonia, ear infections, the flu. You name it, I caught it. And I couldn’t really kick any of it. My body just wasn’t itself.

People keep telling me that I “know my body so well” or that I “listened to my body so well” because I pursued tests, etc. until we found an answer. But I don’t know my body that well. It was divine intervention. Fo’ sho’. Jesus just kept saying to go back. And if you know me at all, you know that I don’t go to the doctor’s or the hospital unless I HAVE to.

I’d always been told that I was at risk for uterine, ovarian, or cervical cancer. Just bad genes, I guess. But then one day, I actually had it. Cancer.

I had cancer.

I sat in the oncologist’s office and his breathing was different than the last time I’d sat across from him. His breaths were deeper. And more intentional. Like he was trying to calm my breathing with his own. I knew what he was going to say. He was going to tell me that my 23 year old reproductive organs were riddled with cancer. He was going to tell me exactly what I’d prayed so hard against. He was going to ruin me.

And then he said it.

“It’s cancer.”

And suddenly the floor opened up and swallowed me whole. I don’t remember a damn thing he told me after that. Except that he kept saying, “I regret to inform you…” And I remember regretting to inform him of some words of my own. But I kept them to myself. At least until I was in my car. Honestly, it’s all a bit of a blur until I got to my car.

But the student in me took over while the rest of my body was in a state of emergency. The student in me took notes on what he’d said while the rest of my body was in survival mode. And then I was able to relay the information to all of the people that needed it more than I did.

I came home from University for Thanksgiving (the week before my test results were meant to be in) and got to spend some much needed time with family and friends. I completely forgot that I’d had the endometrial biopsy done a few weeks earlier. Yeah, I was paler… But my Grammie’s always telling me how pale I am. Yeah, I was having trouble keeping food down… But my tummy’s not great on the best of days. So I headed back to school literally thinking nothing of it and excited to be coming home the very next weekend for IF: Gathering.

The day before driving back home for the conference I look forward to ALL year, I was sitting across from my oncologist. The day before IF, I got cancer.

I remember deciding that I wasn’t going to tell anyone yet. I wasn’t going to ruin all of the hard work that was put into this weekend. I wasn’t going to make this weekend about me.

But in the end, my heart won over my head and I had to tell some people.

Driving is kind of my thing. I love driving. In the day, or the night. With music, without it. For hours, or just the commute home from work. So I drove as far off campus as I could before phoning my Mama because I knew I would need the whole drive back to regain my composure (there was no way in hell I was telling my floor of girls until I absolutely had to and so they couldn’t know I’d been bawling on the phone, at least not yet). It was one of the most difficult phone calls I’ve ever made. Not because I was afraid; I was surprisingly calm for the duration of my journey. But because I knew that this would crush her. I knew this would be one of those memories that you shudder just thinking about. I knew that she’d wish she could be with me. But I was so grateful, in that moment and in the days to follow, to be apart from her. If this phone call crushed her, the rest would have killed her. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t long for her to be close pretty much the whole time, but I think Jesus wanted to save a lot of my people from the worst of it. And although I am often praised for having fought the fight on my own, I was never alone. Some days I felt it, but I was never alone.

I let my Mama tell the rest of my family and was instantly drowning in supportive and loving texts, emails, voicemails, and even hand-written cards.

Ben drove my friend, Kelly, and I home for IF. And before we’d even made it to Abbotsford, I reeled off all of the notes I’d taken in the oncologist’s office the day before. I stared out the window for ages. Trying not to let them see my cry. But I bet they heard me cry. Ben told me that I needed to tell Kirstin. But this weekend was her weekend. Her IF. And it killed me to have to tell her then, but I did. Macy was the next to know. And then not a soul after that for days. I was not going to let my unpleasant, unwelcome, unfortunate shit-show of a test result ruin IF for anyone else. So I put my face on so hard, teared up anytime Kirstin made eye contact for me, worshipped devotedly despite the confusion and frustration, and wrapped a baby to me so tightly that I had something more tangible to blame for my lack of deep breaths.

I’ll be honest, I remember some of that weekend. The important stuff; I remember the important stuff. And the rest? I’ve drawn a veil over the rest.

A few weeks passed and my oncologist, alongside my team of doctors (yeah, you get your own team of doctors when you get the “canc”) decided that we would blast my sickly, cancerous cells (and all my healthy ones too) with some badass brachytherapy. It was uncomfortable as all get out. And it made me radioactive which meant I couldn’t hold any of the babies (and that was very nearly the worst part of this whole thing for me). The first round of radiation only made the cancer stronger, which I was told was a possibility. So we did another couple of rounds.

Radiation is no joke. Not than anyone really goes around joking about radiation. In all honesty, it’s probably the shittiest thing I’ve ever experienced. It destroys your body. Annihilates it. Eradicates it. Obliterates it. Defeats it. Mentally, physically, and spiritually. I spent more nights in my communal bathroom with a pillow and a bottle of gatorade than I care to admit.

My body was tired and sore. I kept none of the food down for days. My bladder was irritated during the procedure. I became anemic because my red blood cells suck. I had scar tissue form in my uterus. It’s likely that my ovaries were damaged (my HCG levels heading into the procedure were already showing signs of premature menopause and so it’s difficult to tell just how damaged). My pelvis and my hips are weak and sore. The muscle and tissue around my hip sockets began to deteriorate. They will be weak and sore for a long time to come. I haemorrhaged after one of my procedures and wound up back in the hospital. I ended up getting a pelvic organ infection after my last biopsy. My hair and eyelashes may never be the same. I am a hot mess. I could go on and on about the side effects. Both temporary and lasting. But they really don’t matter. Why? Because I am cancer-free.

And because Jesus is going to use my story.

I had cancer.

Yeah, cancer is a bitch.

But it was only stage 1.

Kirstin called it my “itty bitty baby cancer” because it was ONLY STAGE ONE.

And I’ve seen God move in so many ways through my story. Softening hearts. Giving hope. Loving faithfully. Growing in grace. Asking for trust. Being all sovereign and stuff.

You’ve sat through the bad and ugly. So now it’s time for the good. That way you’ll have it all: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

On February 14th, I may or may not have been having a “Galentine’s” date with Kirstin. We were mostly poking fun at the term, like we poke fun at most things. But we Galentine’s-ed so hard. With heart shaped cookies and everything. We were sitting on her couch visiting when my phone rang. And then my heart sank. All the way down to my toes. I swear I swallowed vomit. Caller-ID is both a blessing and a curse.

I walked to the kitchen and answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Yes, I am looking for the Brave, Beautiful, and Bold Mikayla May.”

“This is she.”

“Is she Brave?”

“Not today.”

“Oh c’mon, say it with me: ‘I am Brave.’”

“I’m Brave.”

“Do you remember what I told you would have to happen if the cancer was still there?”

“Yeah, you’d like me to come back down to the Coast to discuss further options.”

“Mikayla, I am so sorry to have to tell you that you DON’T have to come back down to the Coast because it’s gone.”

My jaw dropped. Literally dropped.

“What?”

Kirstin’s body shifts from looking out the living room window to looking at me.

“You’re cancer-free. There’s NED (no evidence of disease).”

“I need you to say it one more time. I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have cancer anymore. It’s gone.”

And then I cried. So. Hard. I didn’t realize, until he said it was gone, that I was certain it’d still be there.

I called my Mum.

My dad.

Kaehler.

My Grammie.

Macy, Janneke, Kelly.

I called so many people. And I really don’t enjoy talking on the phone. But I called them. Happily.

And then I texted ALL the people. Because you can only phone so many people. And then I cried. All. Damn. Day.

I had cancer.

But I also had a Saviour.

And so I will love my heart after His in all things.

Jesus doesn’t just “make everything better.” There are people that don’t win their battles with cancer. There are people who don’t even begin their battles until it’s too late. But Jesus does make everything worthwhile. Jesus makes me worthwhile. In fact, He calls me worthy.

I am not the cancer (who’s ass I kicked), I am His (who kicked cancer’s ass for me).

“God’s not impotent. And God is not indifferent. And God hates injury, infirmity, and injustice. Jesus came to heal and relieve from suffering, and God calls us to alleviate and decimate suffering. So if God allows suffering - it must be to allow something He loves even more than He hates suffering? Sometimes God allows what He can hardly stand - to accomplish more than we understand. We can live bitter - or we can love Beloved.” - Ann Voskamp

I will not live bitter; I will live Beloved.

Thank you to everyone who sent a card, a text, an email, a phone call, a prayer, a well-wish, a positive thought, a bouquet of flowers, a care package, a gluten-free something or other, a hug, a song, or an anything.

Thank you for driving me to appointments, for insisting I let you drive me to appointments, for buying me ice cream and gatorade, for not being mad that I didn’t tell you I had cancer for a wong bime, for flying me home that time, for calling even when I sounded annoyed about it, for driving me home, for helping me pack, for understanding my decision to leave, for leading dorm meetings when I could not, for taking over as RA, for keeping in contact with me, for taking a bus for me, for crawling into my bed when I couldn’t get out of it, for lending me books and movies, for letting me sleep on your couch instead of visit because I was just too tired, for having hydrangeas delivered to TWU, for loving me, for FaceTiming me to pray, for doing all of the things I didn’t even know you did, for taking care of me, for letting me “take care of myself.”

Thank you to my team of doctors, nurses, therapists, and pastors. You’re the real MVP’s.

Thank you to my parents for trusting me enough to let me fight this so far from home. And for loving me so well from home. And for taking care of me when I finally did come home.

Thank you to Kirstin & Ben, Macy & Jordan, Janneke and the rest of the IF girlies, the girls of 2/3 Low, my RAD team, my family & friends, my church, my people, and my Jesus.

I had cancer.

But I don’t anymore.

I trust my story and His plan.

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