I don’t think that anyone can ever explain what happens to a person when they stand toe to toe with a terminal diagnosis. Unless you have been there and experienced it, there’s no way you can help someone else to understand. Yet, people ask all the time.

They want to know what it’s like to do something knowing it may or may not be the last time. They want to know how it changed your relationships with those you love. They ask if it feels weird to have sex knowing that you’re probably only going to be having sex for a little while longer.

I try to be understanding. I answer their questions to the best of my ability and I try to do it nicely. Especially when I know that they have read my blog, because they feel like they know me after reading my stuff for almost three years. I figure that I owe them a little common courtesy.

What no one realizes is that the entire cancer thing is completely subjective. My experience with it isn’t like anyone else’s. My thoughts and emotions might not sync with their grandmothers experience or their sisters experience.

Still, it’s sometimes easier to answer their questions than to answer the ones that they left unasked.

The questions just hang in the air. They want to know about HPV. They want to know if I ended up with HPV which led to cervical cancer because I was a slut (I wasn’t- Sperm Donor had it and passed it onto me while the repeated rapes and abuse were occurring.).

They want to know if they will one day be like me.

And I can’t answer that question for them.

There are too many variables; too many unknowns. I’m not a doctor. I don’t have the answers and I certainly am not in any place to offer any sort of reassurance.

So I tell them to see a doctor. Even if they’ve never had unprotected sex, ask for a full work-up. I remind them that they are their best advocate. If they don’t find the answers they’re looking for, go elsewhere. Doctors are human too.

If I’d argued with every gynecologist that told me that the results of my Pap smear were abnormal. If I’d made them read the family history section of my records. If I’d told them sooner that I was sexually abused repeatedly as a child. If I’d remained steadfast in my insistence that my age didn’t mean I was exempt from developing cancer.

If I would have taken my own advice, I might not be fighting for my life.

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