People First by Rachel Lawson

Today I’m sharing something a little different. Rachel wrote this today, and after she read it to me, I asked if she would mind if I shared it here. She gave me permission to let her be my guest writer for the day.

One of the things I’ve been thinking about lately is how much this season is changing all of us, sometimes in ways that have very little to do with cancer itself. Rachel, of course, has been noticing those changes before and probably more deeply than any of us. She is the one actually living them.

I love this because it sounds exactly like her. There is humor in it, because of course there is, but there is also something underneath it that I hope she carries with her long after this season is behind her.

So today, these aren’t my words. They’re hers.

Here’s Rachel.

People First

Cancer is changing me.

Obviously, it’s changing me physically. That part is pretty hard to miss. My hair is gone. My body is doing weird things. There are appointments and medications and chemo and all of the other very visible evidence that life looks different than it did a few months ago.

But I think some of the bigger changes are happening in places nobody can see.

A couple nights ago, Sarah had told Sam she would take her driving. Sam is learning, and she was excited about it, but Sarah got tired and time got away from her. It happens. Except Sam was really disappointed.

So I heard myself say something I’m fairly certain pre-cancer Rachel would have never said:

“Drive me to Dairy Queen.”

In my car.

At night.

On the highway.

There are several things you need to understand here.

First, I am already a nervous driver when I’m the one driving. Second, I’m a control freak. Third, I happen to value both my car and my life.

So handing the keys to a brand-new driver and climbing into the passenger seat while she drove my car at night, on the highway, would normally fall somewhere on my list between “absolutely not” and “have you lost your mind?”

But this time, I just…didn’t care.

Not because I suddenly stopped caring about my car.

Not because I’ve magically stopped being anxious.

And definitely not because cancer has turned me into some carefree person who has surrendered all control. Let’s not get carried away.

I just looked at Sam and realized she needed this more than I needed to protect all the things I usually protect.

The car has insurance.

Surely she probably wasn’t going to kill me.

And she needed someone to show up.

So I did.

We drove to Dairy Queen and back.

Her first time driving at night. Her first time driving on the highway.

And somewhere in the passenger seat, while probably gripping something tighter than I’d like to admit, I realized this was another way cancer is changing me.

It’s changing the order of things.

Before cancer, I think I spent a lot more energy protecting things. Protecting my stuff. Protecting my plans. Protecting my comfort. Protecting myself from situations that made me anxious or uncomfortable.

I liked having my hands on the wheel—literally and figuratively.

Now?

I’m starting to understand how little control I actually had in the first place.

Cancer has a pretty brutal way of teaching you that.

You can do everything right and still get the phone call. You can make plans and watch them change overnight. You can worry yourself sick trying to prevent every possible bad thing and discover that life was never asking your permission anyway.

And maybe that sounds depressing, but lately I’m finding something strangely freeing in it.

Because if I can’t control everything, then maybe I don’t need to try so damn hard.

Maybe I can loosen my grip.

Maybe the car can just be a car.

Maybe being uncomfortable for twenty minutes is worth giving someone I love a memory, an experience, or simply the feeling that somebody showed up for them when they were disappointed.

Maybe people get to come first.

I don't want cancer to be the thing that defines me. There are plenty of things about this experience I would give back without hesitation.

But I also don't want to miss what it's teaching me.

Because cancer is taking things from me, yes.

But somehow, in the middle of all of that taking, it is also stripping away some things I probably didn't need to hold onto quite so tightly.

The need to control everything.

The instinct to protect things over experiences.

The assumption that there will always be another night, another drive, another Dairy Queen run, another chance to show up.

There probably will be.

But I don't want to live like that's guaranteed anymore.

So I handed Sam my keys.

I sat in the passenger seat.

I let her drive.

And maybe that sounds like a very small thing.

But for me, it wasn't.

It was one more tiny moment of realizing who I am becoming.

A little less worried about the car.

A little less obsessed with controlling the road.

And a whole lot more interested in the person sitting beside me.

People first.

I think I want to keep that part.