The holidays used to mean joy, laughter, and twinkling lights — until cancer treatment made even simple celebrations feel impossible. Most people look forward to the season — the festivity, the food, the bustle. But when you’re in treatment, the holidays bring a different kind of weight.
There’s the fear: Will this be my last one?
There’s the reality of financial strain: How do I celebrate when treatment has already drained our savings?
And there’s the quiet ache of being around people again, wondering if they’ll even recognize you — or if you’ll recognize yourself.
Our appearances change. Hair falls out. Weight shifts. Our bodies carry scars and swelling. Getting dressed can become a puzzle. And while everyone else seems to sparkle, we’re just trying to hold it together.
I remember my first Christmas during treatment. I wasn’t afraid of dying that year.
But I was afraid of disappearing.
I knew I would likely live through that holiday, but I didn’t want to vanish into the background — to become invisible at my own family gathering. The truth is, I didn’t have the money or the energy for even modest gifts. As much as I tried to stay positive, there was a shadow of doubt that whispered, Is this the beginning of the end?
That Christmas was bittersweet. It stripped everything down to what truly mattered. We had always been more about experiences than things, but this time there were no extras — not even small gifts for the kids. They understood, but it hurt my heart. I refused to pile debt on top of the financial toxicity we were already drowning in.
Then something unexpected happened. A friend I hadn’t seen in ages sent me a gift card she’d won in a raffle — to a store she said she’d never use. She had no idea that her random act of generosity would become our Christmas that year. Because of her, there were gifts under the tree. Her kindness made me feel seen when I was starting to disappear.
But that season also taught me something hard about how people respond to illness. Out in public or at gatherings, I found myself sorted into three categories:
- The Avoiders – those who looked past me as if cancer made me invisible.
- The Interrogators – those who cornered me with endless questions about my diagnosis until I could barely stand upright.
- The Storytellers – those who needed to tell me about their uncle who died, or their friend who “beat it,” as if that would make everything okay.
None of those conversations felt good. I didn’t need to be ignored, pitied, or made into someone’s comparison. I just wanted to exist — to be in the room like anyone else, without cancer being my entire identity.
My husband was wonderfully supportive, though he couldn’t always read the room. So we made a plan: a secret code word. If I said it, he knew it meant, get me out of here — now. Whether I was sick, overwhelmed, or just emotionally done, he would make an excuse and take me home. That small bit of preparation gave me back a sense of control.
Looking back, I realize that surviving the holidays during cancer treatment takes more than endurance — it takes honesty and planning. My family understood that year would be different. There would be fewer gifts, fewer parties, and fewer expectations. But there would still be us — still laughter, still light, still presence.
That Christmas ended up being one of the most meaningful of my life. It wasn’t about what I could give, but about being present enough not to disappear.
And now, eighteen Christmases later, I still pause to feel the light of each small moment — the quiet laughter, the warmth of family, and the simple joy of being together. Cancer took much, but it gave me the gift of noticing what truly matters — the fleeting moments we often overlook, and the enduring truth that presence, not presents, is what lasts.