(Written sometime last year.)

Laying in the dark, I was asked a few questions about my cancer.  How life threatening is this recurrence?  Why am I deciding to refuse chemo?

I swallowed the tears in my throat and willed my voice to work.  Saying I don’t want to lose my hair is something tangible.  Something easier said than simply, how terrified I am.  I don’t want to be the sick girl.  Because somehow if I lose my hair I am that much less of a woman, that much less beautiful, that much less desirable.  I say this as I lay next to a man who has enjoyed my body and my sex.  A man who has run his fingers through my hair while inside of me.  A man I wish would never look at me any different than he does now.

The conversation makes me realize how lonely I have been. The topic of conversation was not something I spoke on with too many people.  In fact, those closest to me didn’t know much.  Some how, the less I talked about it, the less it seemed to be real. “Not talking about it doesn’t make it any less real, Rachel,” he said. I know.  The tears run from my eyes in silence and I pray that he can’t see them in the dark.  I blink them away and hope he’s asleep but my mind does not rest.  I am 28 years old.  Statistically, I have a 31percent chance  of surviving over 5 years. Although I am not a statistic, I would be lying to you if I said I was not terrified.  In fact, I lie every time I say I’m ok.

You know what though? That conversation made one less lonely girl…at least, for the night. And for that, I am so grateful.