The Unwinding of the Miracle - Julie Yip-Williams Page 0,38

to toy with me again.

Josh and others thought I was overreacting, prematurely giving up hope because of one CEA result. In truth, it was my coping mechanism. I needed to toughen up; I needed to change my expectations if I was going to get through the inevitable future setbacks; otherwise, I would be destroyed emotionally.

This was me—turning to face the killing force inside me. I wanted to see it clearly. My life has been far too stark and difficult to let myself slip into denial now. Denial is first cousin to hope. But all good things—the beautiful, impossible life Josh and I have created, for instance—came to be only by facing hard truths consciously. Such realism had served me well, and as enticing as magical thinking can be, now was not the time to give in to its seductions.

Then we went to see Dr. D.L., the HIPEC surgeon, and Josh asked a question that I would have never been able to bring myself to ask: Could HIPEC be a cure?

And, with those words spoken, I could feel the flame of hope grow a little brighter inside me, in spite of the vow I had made to myself. And since then, sometimes thoughts and dreams of a life beyond the eight-year mark have crept into my head, unbidden. People tell me they know that HIPEC will cure me, that I will be one of the lucky ones. I don’t want to believe them because I can’t bear the thought of more heartbreak, but a tiny part of me hopes they are right.

Until cancer happened to me, I never understood the vicissitudes of hope; I never understood the joy, terror, and despair it could bring; nor did I understand its incredible resilience. The best analogy I can come up with for those who have yet to live with cancer is the undying search for an enduring and romantic love, something that is nearly universal to the human experience. Before Josh, there were a few guys in my life. But there were one or two who truly broke my heart, creating the kind of ugly blubbering and depression that embarrasses me now when I think of it.

Nothing hurts quite as much as young love, when it seemed like my entire sense of self-worth was tied to these guys who so brutally rejected me, leaving me feeling utterly unlovable. Each time, I swore that I was done with men, that I didn’t want to put my heart at risk again, that I didn’t need a man to make me happy. And each time, time would make me forget the pain. Time and experience taught me new strength and courage, giving me the fortitude or the foolishness to put my heart at risk again and again—until I finally met Josh.

I think I will always oscillate between embracing and rejecting hope. I think I will always live somewhere in between today and eight years and forty years from now. But what I do know about hope is that it is an everlasting and indelible part of my spirit; it is there even when I feel hopeless, a perpetual flame. I have felt its faint warmth even in my darkest moments, even as I’ve sought to squash it. I know the flame, however weak or strong, will burn so long as I live. And near the end of my days, when it is clear that more life is not possible, my hope will evolve into something else, into hope for my children, hope for the human race, hope for my soul.

15

I Am Lost

I can really cook.

In late spring of 2014, I took to posting pictures of my culinary achievements on Facebook—short rib lasagna rolls, chicken pot pie, turkey soup with kale and loads of other vegetables. Those photos symbolize an ostensible return to “normalcy,” for, before cancer, I loved to cook and had a little problem with buying too much kitchen stuff. Some people have an addiction to acquiring clothes and shoes; I had an addiction to buying high-end cookware, kitchen gadgets, and cookbooks. The best Christmas presents Josh ever got me were my 7.25-quart Le Creuset Dutch oven and a ninety-five-dollar instant digital thermometer. For months after my diagnosis, I stopped cooking. The neuropathy from the first chemo regimen made cooking annoying and even painful. But more critically, I had lost all pleasure in food, convinced against all rationality that everything I ate would make the cancer grow. Ironically, during my most recent hospital stay,