Why Being Diagnosed With Cancer Was A Relief
By: Julia Rose
Tags: Cancer, Life, Self, Health, Mental Health

I stare down at my body. Afraid of what I might see — I hate what I see.

I’m bruised on my legs and arms. Scabs form; my scratches bleed.

I feel humiliated and insecure.

Why am I itching myself constantly?

There is skin under my nails.

What’s happening to me?

I’m disoriented. Confused. Afraid. My heart is pounding; I’m sweating.

I take a deep breath but my chest tightens around my body as if to say, “you are not okay.”

I started trying to rule out what could be causing my itching.

An allergy? Reaction to creams? Laundry detergent? Something external, surely.

Everything I explored fell short. I was always looking for “the thing” causing my itchiness. It didn’t make sense that it continued day after day.

I was in pain. It wasn’t “normal”.

I visited doctors, dermatologists, acupuncturists, naturopaths, allergists, and massage therapists.

My itch kept me awake at night. My body red, sore, and bleeding from the constant scratching woke up my partner, too. I watched the sunrise too many times to count. Sometimes pink, blue, purple; sometimes I just stared into the black night. The black silence. Thinking. Feeling. Worrying. Suffering. Coping.

Work was inconvenient to say the least. The bathroom stall saw me naked on more than a few occasions. I’d strip down and scratch vigorously for ten minutes. Calmly putting my clothes back on, I’d return to my desk.

There was not much to be done about the hot flashes except sit next to the open window in mid-February, winter swirling into my open office. My colleagues glanced with concerned looks from nearby with their jackets on. “Sorry” — I’d say. An hour later, back to the bathroom I went.

Then there was my cough.

I coughed hard for 3 months. I thought I broke a rib. My mom told me to hold a pillow tightly against my ribs when I coughed to restrict some of the pain.

I did it. I tried everything.

I spent more time in cold, sterile rooms than I care to recall.

I’d walk in and my muscles tensed. My heart raced, I felt the hairs on my arms erect, goosebumps formed, my fingertips grew cold. I wanted to puke at each visit. My lungs took sharp inhales. I was back for the fifth time, ready to resist the news they’d share.

Somehow, I composed myself in front of each professional, letting them guide my process. When I pushed back, explaining I was back for the sixth time in a year for the same complaint, tears burned behind my eyes. My stomach turned.

I had doubt. Sometimes in myself, but mostly in their ability to listen to me.

Relief from the itching was only possible in the short term. With each new remedy I tried, I was gifted a few moments of bliss. Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s how long bliss lasted. Each time, the itch crept back — worse.

Each time, I grew more and more afraid of this unknown symptom— of what its persistence might mean.

Only my naturopath and acupuncturist believed something bigger was going on with me.

My doctors, on the other hand, never suggested running any serious tests.

My blood was taken from time to time, but as I would later learn, doctors were so certain nothing was wrong; they weren’t looking for the right things. I watched eyes glaze over when I described my itch without any sort of rash.

So calmly did they dismiss me, despite what I kept repeating: “The itching doesn’t go away.”

I had no idea what I was fighting was notorious for being the “cancer that hides”.

I told my family and close friends about the itching. Trying to put my mind at rest, “It’s probably nothing”, they’d say. “It will be okay”. To them, I still looked like Julia, I talked like Julia, I joked like Julia. I had no rash to prove my skin was reacting. Inside I was screaming; on the outside, calm. With them, few tears left my eyes. I was contained. Steadfast. Committed. Fighting.