Chapter 132: Why can’t she just get over it?
Thailand, 2022
Why can’t she just get over it?
I feel surrounded by this question, whether those around me verbalize it or not.
Externally, my life appears normal- healthy, fulfilling, maybe even lucky. I am a 6+ year survivor of a rare brain cancer who is still able to work as a full time hospital medicine physician, teach medical trainees, travel the world, love and be loved in return. I have a relatively functional body and sometimes an overly functional brain. 🧠
Despite all of this, I choose- perhaps to the confusion of my friends and family- to continuously speak, write, and talk about brain cancer and chronic illness awareness. I volunteer for brain cancer foundations, participate in clinical trial advancement, publish articles, and post on social media. I choose to watch shows and read memoirs about people living with cancer.
Sometimes this feels selfish, even indulgent. Why can’t I just get over it? Why does so much of my life (public identity included) revolve around cancer advocacy even though I’m 6 years out from active treatment and “doing fine?”
Why do I continuously share my medical past when I could be focusing instead on the present? Why do I think my story is important enough to share in keynotes, in essays, in books? Why do the majority of my extracurriculars revolve around cancer even though they bring me a rollercoaster of emotions- grief combined with immense guilt that I am still surviving, still “doing fine” when I am a lucky one?
Why can’t I just get over it already?
The answer to this question is not going to make you feel comfortable, but I hope it makes you feel validated- especially if you are also living with chronic, invisible illness, pain, or grief. These are more similar than I once realized.
I can’t get over it because I am still in it.
Even if you can’t see it, even if I try not to discuss it, even if you don’t want to acknowledge it- the reality is that I am living with something that will never let me forget it, not even for a day.
Every morning and every evening, I must take medication. This is a constant, subtle reminder that cancer is my reality. Even if I manage to go a few hours without cancer being front-of-mind, I will face it twice a day indefinitely.
The energy it takes to face bright lights, loud noises and over-stimulation is significant for a brain injury survivor. The level of chronic fatigue in my life feels Sisyphus-like at times. The fact that my career places me in the center of difficult conversation about illness and dying every day depletes my emotional battery before I have time to recharge it. My quarterly MRI scans keep coming.
The sense of urgency I live with reminding me that I likely have limited time to accomplish my many goals makes rest feel less than restful.
Why can’t I just get over it? Why can’t I stop reminding people I live with cancer? Why can’t I move forward and leave the grief behind?
Sometimes, I wish I could. Somedays, I am jealous that you can live your life without thinking of my cancer. But most days, I am grateful for this awareness of my own impermanence, my own humanity. It brings me closer to a life of mindfulness, easy forgiveness, and unapologetic joy.
Sometimes, I am lonely with this burden. I wish I could simply smile and ignore it to make you feel happier. But, grief is isolating. Grief needs company. Grief is not contagious, nor is cancer- yet sometimes both feel that they are from the reactions others have towards them.
This post is not all doom and gloom. I often go months without posting on this blog because I am
1) Lucky that I have many other fulfilling hobbies,
2) Happy spending my time writing articles for medical humanities work and compiling a book manuscript, and
3) Grateful I receive many invitations to participate in events to raise awareness and advocate-hopefully making a bigger impact than this blog alone can do.
This post came to mind after I got in a little spat with my husband over re-staining our deck. I’m serious! To him, postponing use of our deck for a few weeks while we get it stained and perfected seemed reasonable (and, logically, it is). To me, postponing the joy of spending time sitting on the deck with a book or good company felt monumental. Something about the timeline of this project was triggering to me- stain now, use later vs use now, stain later. What if I can’t enjoy the deck later? This thought was all-consuming.
I can’t always anticipate the things that trigger my fear, my grief- but when they arise, they are instant and powerful. I know this is hard for those who love me to understand, but I hope these words, written in an untriggered moment, will help.
Holidays, season changes, birthdays, anniversaries – these are common triggers for me. The cyclical thought of “what if this is my last?” looms over these events more than others. I hope this makes sense to some of you reading this, and if at all possible, makes you feel less alone.
I am grateful to be here. I am overjoyed to be “celebrating” my seventh May as a brain cancer survivor. “Go Grey in May” is the slogan for May- brain cancer awareness month.
This May, and every May I am still alive, I will not stop. I will not stop talking about brain cancer- writing, sharing, posting, fundraising. In fact, I don’t care what month it is, I’ll use them all. This relentless reminder of illness might make you uncomfortable; in fact, I hope it does. Growth is not comfortable. Change is unsettling. Effective advocacy to me means evoking emotions, some joyful, others gritty and painful, but all of them honest.
I wish I could just get over it, but I am still in it. A lot of us are. Thanks for being in it with us, it matters.
It’s still May- “Go Grey in May” with me and consider donating to one of many excellent brain tumor foundations such as:
American Brain Tumor Association
Humor to Fight the Tumor
National Brain Tumor Society
Brain Tumor Network
Musella Foundation
Purchase a copy of my book, Difficult Gifts, from which 80% of profits are ALWAYS donated to brain tumor foundations like those above.
Fondly,
Courtney
© 2026