Cancer vs Heart Disease

Cancer vs. Heart Disease—

My lifelong friend got diagnosed with stage four cancer in December 2022—one week after I was told I needed heart surgery.

It was always the four of us from the hood we grew up in—forty years of friendship.

I tried to be there for her as much as I could—and I was there on a few occasions, while dealing with my own crisis.

My/our other two friends were up her ass—“ Cancer.”

They never came for me.
Never checked in on me.

When she died in September 2024, everyone—EVERYBODY— accused me of being a shit, selfish friend because I wasn’t there.

No one gave a fuck that I was broken. That I was waiting on my second heart surgery. That I was drowning in it—barely hanging on.

They needed someone to blame—and I was easy.

Meanwhile, I was completely fucking shattered. Struggling to breathe under the weight of my own survival. Waiting for the next cut. In fucking pieces.

Forty years of friendship—gone.

I’m hurting—I’m going through it—it’s all a part of the healing process—lots of tears going on over here.

Cancer vs. Heart Disease—

They wire you up, sew you up, and you’re out the door. Everyone acts like it was no big deal— meanwhile, the person on that gurney just faced fucking mortality.

Open-heart surgery...
Heart issues always take a back seat to cancer. Meanwhile, heart disease is the #1 killer of females per year— not cancer. Ding Ding—that’s a fact.

It’s a disgusting comparison.
It’s a disgusting reality.

“Despite being the leading cause of death worldwide, heart disease feels less threatening than cancer and inspires less urgency in patients and providers.”

WHY!?!?

It sure as fuck doesn’t feel less threatening when you’re the one who had your chest cracked open. I lost my fucking identity when they opened me up.

It wasn’t just my chest—they cracked open my subconscious, brought on the superconscious, and they took over. For over a year, I felt completely lost.

I had to find and pick up pieces of me that were scattered everywhere. I had no clue who I was.

I endured health issue after health issue— multiple trips to the ER. Every time I turned around, it was something else.

But no one gives a shit about that—about what really happens when they crack your body in half. When that happens to you, you will never be the same again.

All of this is unspoken. Dismissed. Hidden.

Over forty percent of people become depressed after open-heart surgery—and they don’t know why?

The doctors don’t tell you anything. But I’m telling you right fucking now: It’s because you are not the same person anymore.

You have to find yourself again. Put the pieces back together. It is not cut and fucking dry, no matter how much they pretend it is.

Those people who become depressed? They’re just labeled depressed. Written off. Dismissed. “Here’s some Zoloft—have a nice day.”

Maybe—just maybe—if those forty percent had known…

Had even a sliver of knowledge that after open-heart surgery, there’s a good fucking chance you’ll lose your identity—they’d stand a chance.

They’d know. You’re gonna be fucked up for a while—

A good while—

Not just physically.
Not just six weeks.
Not just a year.

—and it’s not weakness. It’s survival.

It takes two years to fully recover. Mentally, physically and psychologically. But no one tells you that and no one talks about the identity part.

I was lucky. I had the strength to seek out the help I needed. I was fucking determined to find myself. And it took two fucking years.

But nobody talks about this.

It takes two years of your life— and once you’re sewed up, off the gurney, on your way home? That’s it. You’re on your own.

I’ve been fucking nauseous since the ICU. Every. Goddamn. Day. Gravol? Useless.

The only thing that worked was Zofran—they gave it to me in the hospital, and for once, I could breathe without wanting to puke.

I told my doctor I need it. Need. Not want. You know what I got back? “It’s only covered for cancer patients on chemo.”

Cool.

So I get to suffer because I had my fucking chest cracked open instead? Because I survived heart surgery—twice—instead of getting cancer?

The system doesn’t give a shit. Survive the knife. Survive the second time. Then suffer some more in silence, because your pain isn’t “covered.”

No help. No coverage. No compassion. Just more nausea. More swallowing it down.

But hey—congrats to me for surviving the surgery, right?

There—I fucking said it!