I Am Still Here

Esophageal cancer
came into my life
like a sentence I never deserved,
a word too heavy
for one person to carry.

Then came chemo,
then radiation,
then the days that felt endless,
when my body felt broken
and my spirit felt thin.

I lost thirty-three pounds,
but I lost more than weight.
I lost pieces of normal.
I lost quiet nights.
I lost the feeling
that tomorrow was promised.

There were moments
I felt like I was dying,
moments I stared at the ceiling
and wondered
how much more pain
a person could survive.

I wanted to give up.

Not because I was weak,
but because I was tired
in a way most people
will never understand.

And now still coming,

a surgery that scares

me to my bones.
They will remove my esophagus,
and I do not know
how to be brave about that.

But maybe bravery
is not the absence of fear.

Maybe bravery
is crying in the dark
and still showing up
the next morning.

Maybe bravery
is losing weight,
losing sleep,
losing comfort,
but not losing yourself.

Cancer has changed me.
It has hurt me.
It has tested every part of me.

But it has not ended me.

I am still here.

Still breathing.
Still praying.
Still hoping.
Still holding on
with hands that tremble
but refuse to let go.

To every brother and sister
fighting this same cruel fight,
I see you.

I know the fear.
I know the exhaustion.
I know the quiet moments
when you wonder
whether you can keep going.

But we are still here.

And as long as we are still here,
there is still hope.

We may be scared,
but we are not defeated.

We may be tired,
but we are not done.

Together,
through the pain,
through the fear,
through the unknown—

we keep holding on.

Written from my journey with esophageal cancer
W. W. Icenhour