When I am going through heavy dark shit, I am not above being immobilized. The basics feel unbearable. Months ago, I had dinner plans with a dear friend at my boyfriend’s restaurant—a place that should have felt safe. That day, I simply could not.
She didn’t push. She met me where I was and became a lifeline—getting me out of bed, showered, and fed.
If you’ve never known this depth of depression, I hope you never do. I hope it sounds far away, unimaginable, and it never comes for you.
Still, there’s an upside to the hopeless wallows: the other side.
When I was first diagnosed, I hated the idea of “the other side.” With Stage IV melanoma, there’s no talk of “cure.” No remission. Just No Evidence of Disease—for as long as it lasts. At first, that felt like no side at all.
But I was wrong.
Now I know: the other side isn’t about life or death. It’s about being present and well.
Today, I am present and well. My kid just started high school. My nephew and son are laughing together after school again. Offers are coming in on the house. I’m working with remarkable friends on the first Cancer Sharks Storytelling Night. (Boston friends: mark October 5. Tickets are $25 with food included, and I may be the least impressive storyteller on the lineup.)
And at the end of the month, I get to return to a writing workshop with two of my favorite mentors from graduate school.
I am good at chronicling the moments when I am terrified. But today, I need to record the opposite: the days when I feel wholly me. When I am Amandaing at full Amanda-capacity.
Because right now, if you ask me how I am, I can honestly say: I’m great.
I even matched my hat and hair tie - which wasn’t on purpose, but pointed out as another win by my boyfriend.