Each day, I wake up and face a high-stakes decision: Do I wear pants or shorts? 

I have a scar that runs from the middle of my thigh to the bottom of my knee, so the unavoidable choice to wear shorts in this tropical climate forces me into many embarrassing conversations on the glaring stitchwork etched on my right leg. 

Sports injury? Not really. Slipped and fell? Not that, either. This questioning goes on, until I have no choice but to break the awkwardness of the conversation and say, “I actually got it from cancer” – which only makes everything a bit more awkward. And honestly, I can’t blame them.

In August 2015, I was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, a form of bone cancer, in my right distal femur.

Cancer is not by any means unheard of. It has paid its visit to many, from close relatives to famous celebrities (and even the characters of the popular novel-turned-film The Fault in Our Stars). While common, however, no one really imagines the day that this life-threatening illness would come knocking on the door of a 14-year-old boy.

No teenager is suspect of their own mortality – to be honest, most kids think they’re invincible. So despite feeling an unusual discomfort in my knee for weeks, I quickly shrugged it off as growing pains or a sprain I had clumsily developed. At 14, I had no time for any kind of setback: I was an honor student, a student leader, and I was active in extracurriculars. 

I was in the process of running towards all that I had ever hoped for and dreamed of – but with my diagnosis, I realized that perhaps it was all a false start.

I found myself in the hospital soon after, undergoing the checklist of medical processes and treatments that were standard-operating-procedure for “beating” pediatric osteosarcoma.

First was the biopsy, a procedure where doctors collected a sample of the tumor in my distal femur, which provided a definite diagnosis of stage 2B osteosarcoma. Then, there was the mix of laboratory work – blood tests and 2D echocardiography – which provided diagnostic baselines for my body in preparation for the medical bootcamp it would undergo. Next came the pièce de résistance – 17 sessions of chemotherapy – a combination of Doxorubicin, Cisplatin, and high-dose Methotrexate which combatted the rapidly-growing cancer cells in my body and killed my beautiful head of hair. Last but certainly not the least was a whopping hours-long surgery which sawed off the bone that housed my tumor and installed in its place a megaprosthesis implant. 

But for all this hullabaloo of terminologies and procedures, I had come to know illness not necessarily in medical terms, but through questions that beg answers I’m not ready to face. 

There were large and consequential ones like, “Can I continue schooling?” and “When can I see my friends?”And there were also trivial and childish ones such as, “When can I eat fast food again?” and “Will I finally go viral?”

But for all these questions, which eventually found answers (no, I did not go viral), there is one that still keeps me thinking. “Why me?” 

It’s been six whole years since my diagnosis and I have yet to find the answer to that question.

See, I was made to think that this diagnosis was just a plot device in some grand narrative of purpose and miracles. Because as the age-old adage goes, “Everything happens for a reason” – and I, for better or for worse, really did believe that. 

So I went on the search for the so-called “reason” behind my cancer, and opened my ears to all kinds of possible explanations. Some said that it was a kind of test, a character-building ordeal meant to prepare me for “bigger” challenges ahead. Others said that it was all part of God’s plan. That He had used my illness as a living testimony of His undying love. 

But for all the comfort I’d find in these well-meaning words of consolation, it would just be drowned out by the actual misery of my lived experience. To me, no amount of “God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers” and “You’re an inspiration” could comprehend the cruelty of cancer – the sleepless nauseous nights, the millions of pesos spent, and all the little joys it shamelessly stole. 

They said it would all make sense in the end, but here I am six years later, and it still makes no damn sense.

So after what felt like an eternity searching for a perfect explanation, I came to the conclusion that maybe it just never existed – maybe everything doesn’t happen for a reason.

I had been so obsessed with “turning lemons into lemonade,” believing that I needed to wrap cancer up with a big pretty bow, and that all this trauma would materialize into meaning. But the truth is, these trials don’t simply come and go. They’re like wounds – marks that do in some way heal, but ultimately leave an indelible scar. 

Years after treatment, cancer still casts its shadow. My parents have to pay for expensive monitoring tests to make sure the cancer hasn’t recurred. I’m overcome with anxiety at the slightest body pain, immediately imagining the worst case scenario. And even something as carefree as eating a meal has become a chore as I mentally recount the checklist of foods my doctor has told me to avoid.

And its shadow extends even beyond the medical: A part of me is left heartbroken every time I watch a sporting event, constantly reminded that sickness has rendered me physically disabled. On campus, I can’t just ride any jeepney. I always have to wait for an empty one, even if it means being late, because God forbid my crippled leg survives the crouched walk towards the end of the row. And even looking for a workout routine online becomes a long process of researching, scrubbing through videos, and checking whether my knee could handle a mountain climber or a lunge.

It’s all a bit too funny because as I write this piece, my doctor has declared that I’m finally cancer-free. But what does that even mean? Because no matter what I do or where I go, the scar of sickness never fails to make its presence felt. 

So I refuse to accept the idea that cancer was some fateful event, because the scar that it leaves – both physical and emotional – is too deep to attribute to any predestined explanation. 

Living with cancer taught me that the traumas we experience are not battles to be won or lessons to be learned; they’re just things that we have to carry on our backs as we put one foot in front of the other. 

But admittedly, I still catch myself dreaming of what my life could have been if it weren’t for cancer. Would I be happier? Would I hold a different worldview? Or would I be the exact same person I am today? The possibilities seem infinite, but all these what-ifs quickly end whenever I wake up and realize that it’s all beside the point. 

Whether it was divine predestination or a simple matter of happenstance, the outcome is just the same: cancer leaves me no choice but to deal with it. – Rappler.com

Joaquin Mercado is a Digital Communications volunteer at Rappler and a Broadcast Media Arts and Studies Student from the University of the Philippines Diliman. Having beaten cancer at the young age of 15, he is passionate about telling his own and others’ stories — believing them to be essential for one’s survival.

Voices features opinions from readers of all backgrounds, persuasions, and ages; analyses from advocacy leaders and subject matter experts; and reflections and editorials from Rappler staff. 

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