Recurrence. A word every cancer patient hates to hear. A word that steals your breath, and not in a good way. Not in the way Brad Pitt does (to me). It’s a word guised as a marauder, pillaging your mind of anything good, positive, and holy, until you’re left with nothing but the shattered pieces of dread. It’s a word that has arms to choke you with, and legs to kick you while you’re down. And when you think you’ve accepted the reality of the situation, dusted yourself off to fight another day (more like another minute), the dire uncertainty of it all will leave you vying to escape the existential crisis you’ve now been sucked into — a whirlpool of every decision you’ve ever made, leaving you to wonder: Why?

It was September 21st, 2021 — nearly two years from original diagnosis — when I asked why.

I was sitting on the examining table, while my oncologist, Dr. Yeckes, pressed firmly against the lymph nodes under my arms and neck. She had barely spoken to me, barely made eye contact, and I knew something was wrong.

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