The night is dark, and full of terrors.

A few weeks ago, I went to the dentist because of a strange lump and lesion I found in my mouth. They referred me to an oral surgeon for a biopsy. I got the biopsy last week, and this past Monday, I got the results.

They weren’t good.

As I sat in the exam room, waiting for the doctor to bring me the results, I kept trying to distract myself with my phone but found myself, instead, lost in my thoughts. I’d been trying not to think about it all week, convincing myself I had cancer one day and then calming myself with how rare it would be to actually turn out that way. Then quickly panic-Googling “oral cancer,” and promptly freaking out again (note to anyone reading this: DO NOT GOOGLE THAT, it’s horrifying.)

My panic turned out to be justified, though. The doctor swept in, interrupting my whirling thoughts, to do a quick exam. “The biopsy site is healing well,” he said. “And I have your biopsy results. Unfortunately, we are dealing with oral cancer here.”

My stomach dropped, a chill went over me, and I found myself wrapping my cardigan around myself like a blanket. For some reason, I found myself thinking about how thankful I was to live in the PNW, where it was cool enough for me to wear a long-sleeved cardigan in August. Then I realized the doctor was still talking. I nodded along, my breath fogging up my glasses because of the mask I was wearing, and then, as he handed me a referral to another specialist to contact about treatment options, it hit me. The tears started, finally catching up with the situation.

Do you know how uncomfortable it is to cry with a mask and glasses on? The nurse kept handing me tissues and I sort of just gestured helplessly because what was I supposed to do with them? They asked if I had questions but I didn’t ask the ones I really had. “How is this happening?” “Why me?” “Is this real?”

He tried to assure me that they’d caught it early and that it was treatable, sometimes just with surgery. He told me to keep positive, keep living my life as normal. I, ever restrained, did not respond with, “You just told me I have cancer, can I have five minutes to freak out, please?”

They gave me time to collect myself and the nurse walked me outside. Later, Joe (who had been waiting in the car because of COVID restrictions) would tell me he knew it was bad when the nurse came out with me. He got out of the car as I approached. I tried, so hard, to keep it together but immediately started sobbing and blurted out, “it’s cancer.”

We got in the car, he quickly got me home, and I informed my boss that I wouldn’t be working that day (because how). Then I didn’t know what to do with myself. I sat in surreal silence on the couch, randomly breaking into tears, and looking up the doctor’s information that I’d been given. I couldn’t turn my brain off, though. I just kept thinking: Cancer. I have cancer. I have oral cancer. Squamous cell carcinoma. I have it. That’s what I have. Cancer. WHAT.

I just keep thinking of this conversation I had with a friend’s mom years and years ago. She had recently been diagnosed with cancer. She was so positive about it. I thought she’d be depressed, that she’d cry, curse, scream at the world. Instead she said, “These days, everyone gets cancer. It’s just my turn to have it.”

And now? I guess it’s mine.