Call it what you want

 The actual, medical definition of cancer is a group of diseases characterized by the uncontrolled growth and spread of abnormal cells that can invade and damage healthy tissues and organs.

The personal definition of cancer is a little more murky and, I would argue, open to interpretation. 

If asked, it takes no time at all for me to come up with mine. 

I'd use descriptions like shocking, devastating, really (really) hard, painful, the thief of normalcy, mind blowing, uncomfortable, mean (not like the kid who stole your favorite snack on the playground kind of mean but like worse scenario your mind can conjure up type of mean). 

To me, it's like suddenly being asked to breath under water.

But if I'm being honest, I'd describe some other things I've experienced in life about the same way. Speaking only for myself, I can think of quite a few hard hits in my life that fit the above description just as well.

Let's take divorce. Statiscally, more than a few of you have that shared experience. And I'm willing to bet that after enough time passed (whatever 'enough' was for you) you looked back and thought that there was some benefit to it. Positive outcomes came from it, a better road became available to you. You might even consider it a gift.

Recently I got to spend a morning with a friend who has experienced cancer. He's on the other side of it. Blessed with the word remission attached to his journey, and has the benefit of more time since the original diagnosis. 

I spent a significant amount of our time together admitting that I've been wishing away time. Which, in a previous version of my life, I'd scold myself for. 

We're all probably guilty of it. "Let's just get through today, this week, this dinner, this phone call, this appointment...and then..." 

But if every day is a gift, I am guilty of sending too many back lately - unappreciated, unsavored. No one might blame me. If you know me at all you know my line on repeat is 'some days are better than others.' 

But if I'm being really truthful here, the bad days aren't so great because - well, obviously - they aren't great days. Probably because my symptoms are in charge and not allowing me to come up for air. And on the good days I often wonder whether the next will be a return to feeling lousy or if I'll get lucky enough and experience a repeat. 

He said "You might not be ready to hear this yet, but I think you may come to find that cancer is a gift."

You might need a moment to soak that idea in. You might not agree. You might not know whether you'd think so if you had to join this club. 

And you might be surprised that it took me not even a moment to say "I completely agree."

I love the west coast. I love sunshine (no one can argue we get more of it here), I love water (I'll take in the form of a beach, a lake, a babbling brook, whatever). I've spent close to twenty years seeking a life - an adventurous, meaningful, interesting, different life than the one offered to me prior to the move. 

I bought a paddleboard. Hiked in some beautiful places. Went on stunning walks with Oliver and friends. I've met a lot of wonderful people I'd never have come across otherwise. And I'm proud of how open-minded I am as result of being exposed to so much.

But I've missed many of the small moments, quite a few of the highs and the lows, the little things, unimportant things, and sometimes big things with the people who mattered long before I changed coasts. 

Cancer has offered me the gift of rethinking what I want to focus on. Who I want to spend my days with - the good ones and the lousy ones. 

It has not come in a fantastic gift bag, and there are certainly no bows attached. But I believe I have been given a gift. With this move, it is my hope I will truly start to leave less of my days 'unopened.'