Almost two weeks ago, I received the kind of news that shakes your entire foundation—I was diagnosed with cancer.
It started with a lump. Then came the scans, the biopsies, the long silences from doctors who don’t want to say too much too soon. Finally, the words landed like a wrecking ball: thyroid cancer. It’s already spread to my lymph nodes, and there’s concern it may go further.
They say it’s treatable. “Very treatable,” they emphasize, trying to reassure me. And I try to believe them. But the doubts creep in, like smoke under a door you thought was closed.
And yes, speaking of smoke—I still haven’t quit.
They tell me cigarettes didn’t cause this. That thyroid cancer isn’t usually linked to smoking. Still, I can’t help but wonder. I’ve been journaling my struggle with cigarettes for months now, and here I am facing the ultimate wake-up call, still lighting up. Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of habit. Maybe because part of me feels like if I give it up, I lose control over the last thing I still can control.
This diagnosis has triggered something deeper: an existential crisis I can’t shake. I’ve been obsessing over death, what it means, what comes next—or doesn’t. As an atheist, I don’t have a belief in a grand afterlife. I don’t imagine heaven or even reincarnation. I see the void. In the words of Jean-Paul Sartre: Being and Nothingness. And right now, nothingness feels all too close.
If something happens to me, I want to be remembered not for the chaos I stirred up on social media, or the arguments, or the mistakes. I want to be remembered for the art I made, the books I wrote, the music I left behind. That’s my afterlife—the impression I leave in the hearts and minds of others.
But I’m not done yet. I still have a lot of work to do to stay alive. There are tests, surgeries, doctor visits, and treatments ahead. There’s also the psychological battle: the fear, the anger, the regret. And yes, still, the cigarette cravings.
I don’t write this for sympathy. I write it to be real. Because that’s what this journal has always been—one person, telling the truth, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
One day at a time,
Dan Joyce and Bonkers
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