Top 99 Quotes & Sayings by Suleika Jaouad - Page 2

Having cancer changed the way I ate and thought about food. My symptoms dictated my eating habits. The sores in my mouth and the bouts of nausea, for instance, stole the pleasure of eating and made it an ordeal. At some points in my treatment, eating wasn't even an option.

Today, at age 24, when my peers are dating, marrying and having children of their own, my cancer treatments are causing internal and external changes in my body that leave me feeling confused, vulnerable, frustrated - and verifiably unsexy.

Even the word 'cancer' is ugly, scary, burdensome - a roadblock for a conversation before it even starts. Who wants to go there? Much of the time, I'd rather not bring it up if I don't have to - and I'm the one with the disease!

I can always tell when my mother, an artist who grew up in Switzerland, starts to feel nostalgic for home. It is the smell of the crispy apple tarts, the ginger cookies, and the creamy muesli full of nuts and fresh berries. The scent alone delivers a rush of childhood memories for me.

Sex can be a squeamish subject even when cancer isn't part of the picture, so the combination of sex and cancer together can feel impossible to talk about.

For cancer patients like me, and for others who suffer from chronic or life-threatening illnesses, natural disasters don't put health on the back burner.

Cancer makes people think about mortality. It scares your friends and family. And many cancer patients, consciously or otherwise, try to buffer bad news with a dose of positivity.

Writing about cancer is always a challenge for me because it hits so close to home.

I've been fortunate to be treated by excellent doctors at world-class hospitals. In the last year alone, my insurance has covered over a million dollars in medical expenses, including a bone marrow transplant and 10 hospitalizations amounting to a combined five months of inpatient care.

If you have a chronic illness in America, there's a good chance you also hold a degree in Health Insurance 101, whether you want to or not.

My mother comes from a small village on the Lac de Neuchatel where there is one bakery, one butcher and one grocery store. Even after decades in New York, she prefers home cooking to ordering in.

Our culture is steeped in positive thinking - from the self-help mega-industry to college courses in positive psychology to the enduring pull of the American dream. There is no dislike button on Facebook. Nobody wants to be a downer.

After my diagnosis at age 22 with leukemia, the second piece of news I learned was that I would likely be infertile as a result of chemotherapy. It was a one-two punch that was my first indication that issues of cancer and sexual health are inextricably tied.

The first time I fantasized about early retirement, I was 22 years old. It was a rainy spring morning in Paris, and as I waited for the Metro to take me to my new paralegal job, it occurred to me that I'd rather be sleeping in, or playing hooky at the movies, or sailing around the world.

When I was diagnosed with cancer at age 22, I learned just how much cancer affects families when it affects individuals.

For many of us, the holiday season triggers memories of food and family. That's certainly the case for me.

Where cancer is concerned, it's safe to say there's no such thing as good timing.

Cancer can catch even the best of us off guard. Sometimes the emotions come pouring out. Sometimes they stay locked inside.

Traveling gave me the opportunity to reinvent myself. You can imagine my excitement when, one year after my bone marrow transplant and two years after my cancer diagnosis, my doctors gave me permission to take my first big trip since cancer. Freedom, finally!

Dozens of chemotherapy treatments and one bone marrow transplant later, I wish I could say that I've mastered the art of not working. But there are still days when I wake up feeling simultaneously restless and bored.

My own cancer experience has taught me that the most comforting words from friends have often been both the simplest and the most honest.

I was born in New York City speaking French at home.

When I was first in the hospital, some of my visitors seemed so intent on not upsetting me that they avoided the topic of cancer altogether. Others just couldn't seem to find any words.

The thought of going through a bone marrow transplant, which in my case called for a life-threatening dose of chemotherapy followed by a total replacement of my body's bone marrow, was scary enough. But then I learned that finding a donor can be the scariest part of all.

Today, my brother and I share almost identical DNA, the result of a successful bone marrow transplant I had last April using his healthy stem cells. But Adam and I couldn't be more different.

There are days when I even long for the paralegal job that once upon a time made me so miserable. It wasn't the perfect fit for me but it was satisfying to go to sleep each night after a hard day's work at the office.

There's no denying that cancer is a gloomy subject. We repeat positive phrases to ourselves as a sort of mantra. And while positive thinking alone can't cure cancer, attitude is critical to getting through the process and growing as a person.

In Paris, the doctors had struggled to make sense of my symptoms - anemia, fatigue and persistent infections. They ran test after test - I was even hospitalized for a week - but the results were inconclusive.

I remember my first day of chemo as if it were yesterday, hanging up my favorite summer dress like an athlete retiring a jersey. Within a few weeks, my waist had shrunk to a double zero - the size it was when I was in the sixth grade. My cheek bones jutting out. Rings under my eyes. Skin the color of chalk.

Looking back, I call the first month after my diagnosis 'the cancer bubble' because I wasn't showing obvious signs of my disease. I looked about the same - maybe a little more tired and pale than usual, but a stranger could never have guessed that I carried a secret, deep in my bones.

I've struggled with the awkwardness of cancer ever since my leukemia was diagnosed last May. When I told people my news, some people froze, falling silent. One person immediately began telling a story of an aunt who had died from the same kind of leukemia.

When I finally returned home after my five-week hospitalization, I could feel the stares of strangers on my bald head and thinning eyebrows. Everywhere I went, cancer spoke for me before I could say the first word.

Every time I see a doctor, get a CT scan, receive chemotherapy or pick up a prescription, insurance covers only part of the transaction - and there's always a bill on top of it.

Cancer had given me a reverse celebrity status: all the attention for something you didn't want to be known for. I had crossed over into a new land, the land of Patient. And with every step I was feeling less like Suleika.

When I was growing up, traveling was my family's modus operandi. Between the ages of 4 and 18, I attended six different schools on three different continents.

Even amid the shock of my diagnosis, I held onto the hope that I'd be able to make the most of my down time by catching up on reading or watching all those Criterion Collection movies I'd always meant to watch.

Like a lot of other young people, I never thought about health insurance until I got sick. I was 22, and my adult life was just beginning.

Cancer magnifies the in-betweenness of young adulthood: You're not a child anymore, yet you're not fully ready to live in the adult world, either. After my diagnosis, I moved back into my childhood bedroom. And as I get sicker, I increasingly rely on my parents to take care of me.

Soon enough I would learn the specific diagnosis: myelodysplastic syndrome, a disorder of the bone marrow. In my case, the disease growing inside me had morphed into acute myeloid leukemia. I would need intensive chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant to save my life.