Ryan N.'s Story: Not Yet: Settling Into the Space Between the Known and Unknown
A few years ago, I bought a “Not Dead Yet” crown that I liked to wear on my Cancerversary.
Some people may find that dark or morbid, and they are entitled to their thoughts. I did not get it for them.
It was a reminder for me.
I am living with a disease that is considered incurable. I am fortunate that my current treatment line has not failed, but the reality is that it probably will. I have been “no evidence of disease” since April of 2023, but NED does not mean "cured." It means that, right now, there is no detectable evidence of disease on my scans.
Cancer is still part of my reality, though right now I am experiencing a best-case scenario. I refuse to shy away from the reality of my situation or the fact that the best case may not last forever.
For now, even when I feel like shit from my meds' side effects, when the fatigue and brain fog make it hard to remember what it felt like to have a functioning body, I can remind myself that I am still here.
And I am not dead yet.
Recently, while I was away on a trip, my dog took it upon himself to make some edits to my crown. Right down the middle, he decided the “dead” had to go. The remaining portion of the crown simply said: “Not yet.”
I took some time to ponder what this did to my brain. Hmm.
Looking at the remnants of my ruined crown, I considered what type of message “Not Yet” might be to me. Maybe it is a better message than “Not Dead Yet” ever was. “Not Dead Yet” was about surviving. “Not Yet” is about living in the space between what I know and what I do not know.
I don't know how long this treatment will work.
I don't know when my scans might change.
I don't know how many more cancerversaries I will get to celebrate.
I don't know how many more people I will lose along the way. I have already said goodbye to more people because of this disease than I ever imagined I would.
I do not know what the end of this story looks like.
Honestly, there are days when the not knowing is overwhelming and terrifying.
There are also days when I realize that uncertainty is not the same thing as hopelessness.
I can know that this disease may eventually take something from me, without letting it take everything from me now.
I can know that my treatment may someday stop working and still be grateful that it is working today.
I can know that I do not have forever and still make plans for next month.
I can miss the people who are no longer here and still laugh until my stomach hurts with the people who are.
I can be afraid of what is ahead and still be curious about it.
Maybe “Not Yet” is not a promise, or even optimism. Maybe it is simply an acknowledgment of the present:
Today, I am here. Four years later, I am still here. My story is not finished...
Not yet.
