Hello, I’m cancer.

I walked out of the downtown shop holding a bag of amethysts and moonstones, our favorite crystals. Angie, my wife, connects to the energy of amethyst; mental and emotional wellness. I connect to the vibrations of moonstone; hope and connection to the feminine divine. I had purchased one of each for the in-person guests at our wedding, just 10 days away. My intention in these crystals: that each guest would feel loved on our day of celebration, and be reminded of that love each time they touched or saw the stones.

I sat down in my car as my phone started to vibrate in my hand. That number. I knew that number. I had been waiting for a call from that number. "Please be nothing. Please be nothing. Please be nothing," I whispered over and over. "I got the results back from pathology and we found both pre-cancerous and cancerous cells in your uterine lining.” Shit. It wasn't nothing. 

Others have said and I will repeat that nothing can prepare you for a diagnosis of cancer. Time does not stand still. The earth does not stop spinning. Life does not stop going. Work does not stop demanding. Meetings do not stop scheduling. To-do lists do not stop growing. Bills do not stop mailing. Friends do not stop calling. 

So, you have this whole new thing to squeeze into your already full life. Oncology appointments on a Friday when you'd otherwise be working. Googling and reading in the middle of the night when you'd otherwise be sleeping. Grieving in bed when you'd otherwise be cooking lunch. Making decisions about surgery when you'd otherwise be watching tv. Daydreaming about what treatment will look like when you'd otherwise be daydreaming about your future with your brand new wife. Talking to insurance companies about estimated costs when you'd otherwise be having an afternoon meeting. 

Cancer. Right there among the grocery ordering, and garden planting, and working, and loving other humans. 

On May 24th, I will have my uterus removed. When I wake up, I will find out if the cancer is also in my ovaries or lymph nodes. I will find out what stage of cancer I have. I will find out if more treatment is needed. 

Until then, I get to wonder how bad it is. 

Until then, I get to breath through the moments of panic. 

Until then, I get to live in the unknowing... 

I invite you into the unknowing with me, if you have the space, hope, and love to spare. I invite you to imagine a future of healing for me. I invite you to pray or meditate or send vibes or light a candle or practice whatever your sacred practice entails on my behalf. I am already grateful.

Namaste.

Let it be so.