When Cancer Came for Christmas

A Family’s Unyielding Stand Against an Uninvited Intruder

Dear Cancer,

I hope this letter finds you in the middle of some serious self-reflection because, honestly, you need it.

It was three months ago today that you first rocked up to our place uninvited, kicked off your shoes, and plonked yourself down on our couch as if you owned the place. You have no decorum and no sense of occasion. We were in the middle of making plans, dreaming about the future, and you barged in like some distant uncle who had been kicked out of home by his wife and who needed a bed for the night.

You arrived unannounced.

You didn’t even bring a bottle of wine or a casserole. You just showed up with your toxic vibes and started rearranging the furniture — and by furniture, I mean our lives. Suddenly, our schedules are filled with doctor’s appointments, unending blood tests, CT scans, PET scans, ultrasounds, and enough medical jargon to comfortably fill an entire season of Grey’s Anatomy.

Then you overstayed your welcome.

Big time.

September turned into October. October turned into November, and as December approached, bringing with it the festive spirit, you managed to cast a shadow over our holiday season. The tree was adorned, stockings were hung, but there was an undeniable heaviness in the air during what would usually be the most wonderful time of the year.

Why?

Because we are left grappling with a terrible question — the one that lingers in the quiet moments when we dare to let our minds wander. How many Christmases do we have left together? Is this the last one we’ll share as a family? Or do we get one or two more?

Now, we are walking the thin line between fiscal responsibility and throwing caution to the wind — like a tightrope walker without a safety net. On one side, there’s the pressing reality of medical bills, treatment plans, and the ever-present financial strain that accompanies your unwelcome intrusion. On the other, there’s the desire to seize the moment, create lasting memories, and party through Christmas as if it might be the last.

We’ve delved into medical journals, seeking answers that might offer a glimmer of hope or clarity. We’re aware of the statistics, the prognoses, and the stark realities you bring. You are nothing more than a home-wrecker.

So, fuck it.

We’re partying hard. This Christmas, we’re turning up the volume, throwing confetti, and telling you loud and clear that you won’t steal our joy and happiness.

Not today.

In the face of uncertainty, we’re choosing to live fully, love fiercely, and celebrate with an unbridled spirit. For now, in this moment, we’re choosing joy over despair. We’re popping the champagne, raising a toast to defiance, and revelling in the simple pleasure of being together. In fact, just to leave you confounded, today, we are are drinking to our own good health. Heck, I just downed my third vodka and soda water. And now I’m writing like a drunk, and I don’t care.

Cancer, you can go and sit in the corner while we give gifts and laugh. We won’t be paying any attention to your sulking and grumbling. We are ignoring you for one final day at least. You’re not invited to the table this Christmas.

Tomorrow is when we will deal with you.

We get it — you’re here to stay for a while. And we will put up with you for now because we understand what it will take to make you leave our home for good. One of us will take you by the hand and walk with you out the front door, never to return.

That’s the only reason we put up with you. You might win the war, but you have lost today’s battle.

It’s Christmas time.

And you’re not invited to the party.

Not-so-fondly,

A Family that’s Resilient AF

Dan Foster is the author of “Leaving Church, Finding God: Discovering Faith Beyond Organized Religion.”

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