Ironically, I was officially diagnosed with stage IV colorectal cancer on my 30th birthday in July 2018. That was the date I fully accepted what I had just been told. The colorectal surgeon walked in and without any movement in his face told me I had, ‘five years to live, at best.’

I drove to the doctor’s office, by myself, during my lunch break from work (you’ll understand later) in a rush to learn about my CT scan results and to confirm my colon was the only location that had cancer. Unfortunately, it had already metastasized outside my colon, spreading to my right lung and liver — pretty extensively. What surprised me the most was the lack of emotion during that very intimate moment. The doctor did not act surprised nor show any empathy. As an empathic person, I usually mirror and feed off the wavelength that an individual is radiating — good or bad. There I stood, cold to the bone hearing my fate that had been solidified. And there I projected myself; decided to go back to work as if nothing happened. I went back to work because I needed that distraction, a way to feel normal and without a spotlight focused on me. Thinking back, I believe I walked into my supervisor’s office after returning to work from the doctors’ and said something to the effect of ‘Yeah…stage IV, I’ll be in my office working.’

Oddly enough, I preferred going in alone, no emotional response was needed or burden felt. Most of my closest friends did not know until well into my chemotherapy regimen. Funny enough, I came out about my cancer to one of my closest friends via Snapchat, mistaking him for a family member. His response, ‘Wait…why are you getting chemo?” is imprinted into my mind, not because he uses that at his stand-up shows, but that is when I turned to humor as a way to express myself when talking about cancer.