Feeling Dramatic
It's a mind fuck, frankly.
It’s a mind fuck, honestly.
One minute, you’re living your normal life, feeling totally fine. The next, an emailed test result casually drops the words “prostatic adenocarcinoma” into your inbox. No call. No warning. Just a cold, clinical phrase you have to WebMD yourself. Spoiler: It means prostate cancer.
At 42. With no symptoms. I still don’t quite believe it.
“Just because I feel fine doesn’t mean this isn’t real.”
The mental toll is real. The appointments are real. The PSA labs, MRIs, and “hey, can we schedule a quick follow-up?” voicemails are very, very real. Living in that weird disconnect — where your body says “I’m good!” but your test results say “lol, just wait” — is something I never expected to experience.
People say things like, “Well, at least you caught it early, so it’s not really cancer, right?”
Uhh… no. It is cancer. Low-grade or not, it’s still a collection of cells doing shady shit behind the scenes. And the fear that their little operation is expanding territory and starting a turf war? Constant.
“Low-grade or not, it’s still a collection of cells doing shady shit behind the scenes.”
Who Gets to Know?
Early on, I wrestled with how much to share — should I spare everyone’s feelings at the expense of my own? I even tried to joke my way through it. I’ve done stand-up here and there, and I rehearsed this line:
“I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is: it’s not the bad kind of cancer.”
Yeah. Hindsight: not the line. Most people assumed I meant benign. Spoiler: it is not benign.
Feeling fine becomes its own weird form of pressure. Shame. Guilt.
You don’t want to seem dramatic. You don’t want to explain it over and over to people who look at you and say, “But you seem totally normal.”
Yeah, exactly — that’s why it’s a mind fuck.
I went back and forth about who to tell. Of course I told my husband — that’s a given. Then my brother, because this makes him high risk. Then my best friend, because I tell them everything, even when I sneeze. And if I tell that friend, well now I have to tell the other best friend because otherwise that’s rude… and suddenly I’ve told a dozen people just by doing the emotional math of guilt, closeness, and assumed second-hand disclosure.
It’s exhausting!
I’m a natural over-sharer. Ask me literally anything and I’ll give you a TED Talk. I’ve learned in therapy that this is also a handy way to hide — because when you flood people with everything, they rarely notice what you’re not saying.
But I couldn’t just keep this to myself. The friends I see regularly? They’d figure it out. They’d see something was off. I love these people fiercely — I’d drive 100 miles at 3am to change a tire for any of them — and yet, I was tempted to hide the biggest thing I’ve ever gone through.
And I tried. I really did. I kept it small, kept it light…
Plot Twist
…Until I got the genetic test results — the ones that said my not-so-bad cancer might have some very bad potential. That’s when my brain cracked.
“I had just told everyone, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not the scary kind.’
And now it… might be?”
But I still didn’t want to scare anyone. I don’t want sympathy. I’m not dying. I’m still here. Still strong. Still sarcastic as hell. And yet — I’m scared. Deeply. Constantly.
I cry in parking lots after tests, then pull myself together and go meet friends for game nights.
In the rural South where I grew up, a diagnosis of any kind meant a casserole by 5pm and a prayer circle by 6. I don’t need either, but I remember how seen that felt.
I’m not looking for casseroles (though I won’t say no to home-cooked food). I don’t need a GoFundMe — I’ve got great insurance. What I need is connection. Distraction. Support that doesn’t feel like pity. I don’t want to drown my husband in my fear — he’s swimming in his own.
So, fuck it. I told everyone. All of it. No shame, no filter.
And with that came a realization — if I’m going to go full transparency, I might as well help people along the way.
Early-onset prostate cancer is rare — but not impossible. If you’re under 45 and haven’t had a physical, now’s a good time. Just ask for the damn finger. It might save your life.
Early-onset prostate cancer is rare, but it’s real. If me being loud gets someone to book a physical they’ve been putting off? That’s worth it. If someone sees a bit of their own mental chaos in mine? Even better.
I made an Instagram post — a kind of “coming out” — and used it to raise money for the Prostate Cancer Foundation. The response? A mixed bag. Mostly positive & caring, but the silence from a few people? That stung. I don’t need a like, or a share, — donating $20 would be nice — but the absence of acknowledgement from specific people I thought would show up… that hurt in a way I didn’t expect.. your Instagram views are public, y’all.
I think people are just scared of the word cancer. They don’t know what to say. They don’t want to think about their own mortality. I get it.
That’s why I started writing this. It’s choose-your-own-adventure:
Want TMI? You got it!
Want to avoid the word cancer? You can’t. It’s here. So am I. —
…But you don’t have to see it in your Instagram feed constantly either…
I’m going to let myself be a little dramatic for a little while. Because honestly? This is dramatic. It’s scary as hell to be 42 and told your body’s trying to sabotage you quietly with things that shouldn’t happen for 30 more years.
But if I can turn that drama into awareness, connection, or a moment of truth for someone else — then I’m doing more than surviving.
I’m actually living through it.