It’s been a thrilling week over here in Cancer Recovery Land™. By “thrilling,” I mean: almost nothing happened. In the world of APL, it is either a cause for cautious celebration or the calm before the next bloodwork-based existential spiral.
I’ve entered a strange liminal phase of recovery—where the chemo fog has mostly lifted, my body is trying to remember how to be a body, and I’m just vibing. And by vibing, I mean napping in weird places and googling things I forgot five minutes ago.
Intermission: The Snack is Not the Problem (and Neither Is the Silence)
The other night, around 2 a.m., I got out of bed and stood in the kitchen—half awake, thoroughly disoriented, and emotionally negotiating with a stale bag of pita chips. I wasn’t hungry. I was… craving something. Something warm, and close, and human.
And here’s where I get honest: recovery is lonely.
Not the kind of loneliness that family or friends can fix. I’ve got people. I’ve got check-ins, well-meaning texts, freezer meals, and appointment rides. But a specific kind of absence hits when you don’t have a partner—someone who is in it with you, in the small, sweaty, 2 a.m. ways.
Not a caretaker. Not a therapist. A person.
It’s a paradox: I wouldn’t want to be in a non-functional relationship right now. I’ve lived that story. I know what it costs. And yet, there’s still a kind of ache that comes from not having someone to lean into at the end of a long day of doing nothing except trying to heal.
Someone to watch you doze off mid-sentence, witness the quiet spiral that comes with test results, or sit next to you while you peel an orange and try not to cry for no reason. Family shows up and I’m grateful, but it’s not the same. You can’t lean your whole emotional bodyweight on someone who’s also juggling their grief and fear for you.
In all seriousness, this slow week is a gift even if it comes wrapped in fatigue, brain fog, and a side of medical anxiety. Nothing happening means the meds are doing their job, the blood is rebuilding, and the demon cells are hopefully packing up their knives and leaving my bone marrow.
So I’ll take the stillness. I’ll take the naps. I’ll take the weird dreams. Progress doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare, sometimes it just shows up with a quiet “keep going.”
And if you’re also in a phase of slow healing, an understated life skill is in joying where you are without rushing to what’s next.
No quarter given. None expected.
Thanks for checking in.
~ Tyler
