Having a parent diagnosed with cancer is almost the equivalent to trailing off the tracks of a wild log ride. Although you realize that your log members and yourself are on the ride together, you still hit violent waters and get splashed unexpectedly, often. Cancer is such an ill defined mystery of the human body. Cancer is always on the prowl, stealing the lives beneath the feet of so many. With my own father being somewhat freshly diagnosed with colon cancer, I’ve learned quite a bit about not only his illness, but also about my mental health.

With my father’s diagnosis, my family and I have discovered that skin can flex, reaching thicker capacities—more than we ever imagined possible. When a family member is cancer ridden, you don’t really have a choice in regards to if you want to be strong or not, you just are. A funky thing about cancer is that you simply ‘do.’ It doesn’t matter what’s going on in your life, how overwhelmed you are, or how hectic your schedule is. There’s not much time to simply think. Sure, you find yourself often contemplating the illness and your loved one’s overall health almost constantly. However, it’s not until the insanity of the fresh diagnosis has passed, that you catch your own mind flexing and disfiguring itself to comprehend what has just happened and how strong you have become, because of this monster we call, cancer.

Growing into the woman I am today, I have stapled myself to various sports teams, where swearing out of competitive fury is considered acceptable. When I threw my hair up and stepped into my Nike basketball shoes, I was a monster. I was easy to aggravate and tempt, since I always desired to prove my worth and overall just win the game. I left this beast on the court, since basketball was my only way to healthily relieve any sense of anger or aggression. Once I exited the gym, I was a different girl. A relatively non-cursing girl who genuinely cared about others and their success. Off the court, it wasn’t about winning or showing somebody up, it was only about biting my tongue and "acting like a lady," per se. Once the cancer hit, let me tell you, my whole entire house became a cursing machine. My family: we curse when we’re excited, sad, infuriated, or any other emotion you could conjure up on the spot. For us specifically, it has seemed to be that my dad’s chemotherapy not only destroyed his cancer, but all of our mouth-to-brain filters as well. It’s taken some getting used to, but it’s our reality.

Something I firmly believe, is that the smaller, more intricate things in life, are taken much too far for granted. When your friends or family are affected by cancer, you begin to slowly appreciate the smaller things each day, since you realize that they could be so easily taken away or poisoned at any given moment. You begin to appreciate gardening under the hot summer sun, rejuvenating with a steaming shower after shoveling the snow for several hours in the grueling winter, and walking your dog on a cool, fall morning among the foggy mist; excitedly greeting other morning walkers along the way. Any "freak thing" could occur and take away these intricate moments. You suddenly don’t take them for granted anymore.

An attribute of selflessness is required in order to learn a crucial lesson. It’s understood that you are busy, you have one million things to do, and have one million and one on your mind. No matter how scattered your brain is, causing you to run away, don’t. Your family is now your number one priority. Unfortunately, with cancer comes learning to readjust your priorities to your family’s. If you were independent before, you realize that life is gone or on hold. If your mom requests that you miss the concert you’ve been looking forward to since the beginning of summer, to watch your younger sister, you do it. Your personal and social schedule don't mean squat anymore. You flex and rearrange around your family whether you like it or not. You’d hope they’d be the glue bandaging the cracks when you’re breaking, so you become that for them.

Cancer is a frightening word. It’s a phrase that has been known to either draw people to you or away from you, in the complete opposite direction. When this word slips through your mouth underneath your tear-stained eyeballs, you quickly learn who your true friends are. If your friend becomes more distant and nervous when you mention this information, it’s understandable. You’re totally freaked out, so why wouldn’t they be? This said person may gently lose communication with you or abruptly crop it all out altogether without warning. Of course you will remain faithful to this person when needed, because you wanted them to be that for you. However, you realize that those people aren’t your friends. Your friends are the pals that show up at your house with Ben & Jerry’s and slip to the floor with you when you're experiencing a meltdown, just because. Your friends provide comfort and humor when it’s most needed on your end and sympathize with your family. Throughout this journey with my family, if there’s anything I’m most grateful for, it’s my friends. The friends who have let me slip through the cracks and fall apart when I think about how things used to be prior to the diagnosis or how they are now. The same friends that let me slip briefly, but mend me back into shape when needed. Thank you guys, I am forever grateful for you and your support.

The duration of my life, I’ve suffered from an extremely debilitating anxiety and panic disorder. It came to the point where I was unable to eat or brush my teeth without feeling as if the string connecting the earth to the galaxy was just going to snap. Just when I had gotten a grasp of this disorder and learned how to actually live, my father was suddenly taken away on a stretcher and strapped into a hospital bed for an entire month. The anxiety obviously came back, but in a foreign way. I had a deep and gentle sadness that eventually grew to excruciating panic and depression. It is so extremely important that you take care of yourself, especially when a loved one is incredibly ill. I took up yoga and self-meditation. This practice transformed my life, causing me to release negative energy and built up stress. You learn that your mental health is important, since you need to be on your A-game not only for your sick father, but for yourself.

It doesn’t matter what breed of cancer or who it is. Cancer changes people. The patient will never be the same. Post-cancer treatment involves either a negative transformation or a positive one. There’s no telling for sure which transformation your loved one will undergo, but it will definitely be one of the two. Many survivors take their second chance at life for the better, doing more for others and themselves; changing the community for the better since they were given a second shot. Others may be mentally and physically damaged, permanently. That goes for the patient and the patient’s family. Like I mentioned, the type of transformation is unpredictable, but the transformation in general is guaranteed.

You begin to say “I love you” frequently. Making certain that your loved ones are aware of your affection towards them is the new, top priority. You love them even when they are weak and malnourished or feeling neglected and hopeless. I love you, Mom, Hannah, Lydia, and Dad. I’m going to continue to tell you when I wake up, eat breakfast, leave for the gym, depart for work, return from work, eat dinner, and when I brush my pearly whites before bed every single day. I love you all, even when our life sucks. Go team.

God suddenly becomes very important when cancer swims through the veins of your direct family members and ancestors. Your days and nights become consumed with endless prayers for things to turn out okay and for answers to the hell you’ve been experiencing. You start by having one-sided, small talks with God, asking him to somehow relay his message that everything is going to be fine once you throw it all on his shoulders. You don’t see an immediate comfort-holding message, so you sit down with the guy for coffee and hammer him on why he’s not comforting you. Of course he stays silent, so you write an angry letter. Dad has an appointment at every doctor under the sun and on every day of the week, there’s no time to waste any more time arguing with the big man upstairs in person. Your letter describes your pain, sadness, anxiety, etc. I guess it’s three times the charm because God rests a heavy hand on your trembling shoulder and informs you that it’s all going to work out after all. He may withhold the very important news that your father will be cancer-free within the next year, but hey, the man can’t reveal all of life’s secrets now can he?

Lastly, you crave normalcy more than anything. All you’ll want is to hop in a time machine to a time when your dad was strong enough to race you across the sun kissed yard. When he didn’t look malnourished and full of sickness. When you reminisce of how it used to be and what he used to look like, that will send you over the edge. This is where the friends I had mentioned earlier, come into play. You’ll picture how every damn thing used to be and it will drive you mad. You’ll cry, scream, and even write articles about your experience for Odyssey. You will do anything to make the numbing go away and to feel that sense of normalcy. Every family’s level of normal is different and it’s important to keep this in mind. As I write this, I just overheard a voicemail from my dad’s cancer doctor. It has been one year now and there are no signs of cancer in his colon or the rest of his body for that matter. I am so grateful and so blessed to have my friends, family, and God on my side. Sure, we’re not out of the woods quite yet. Personalities have changed and we must all constantly be on the lookout for our health and possible complications that have the potential to arise. This may not be ideal, but it has become my normal. I’m accepting it one day at a time.