Santa Gave Me Cancer For Christmas (Also It Feels Like My Wife Doesn't Exist)

Newsletter or snooze-letter?!

I was diagnosed with cancer a week before Christmas. 🎄

This was an elite holiday mood-killer. It’s up there with seeing Mommy kissing Santa Claus… only Santa is the next-door neighbour, and it’s not a kiss; it’s a decade-long affair.

On the morning I started seven months of chemo, a nurse suggested I write about my hospital experience. She thought it might help me process what was happening. That passing comment was sixteen years ago.

Today, that nurse is my wife, and we are preparing to celebrate Christmas together.

Not really.

That was a lie, sorry.

It would have been a good full-circle moment, though.

I only saw that nurse twice afterwards. Once, when she asked if I had evacuated my bowels that day (they ask cancer patients this question A LOT), the other time was unrelated to poop.

The cancer diary part is true, though.

Every day following her suggestion, I’d leave an entry detailing whatever surgery, chemo, test or torment I’d endured. If I were too nauseous to make an entry, I’d catch up when I regained my strength. Last week, I had a chance to read back through the diary — all 244 days.

I gave it to my parents a handful of Christmases ago as a gift. Having beaten cancer with their love and support, I thought it would be a meaningful and moving gesture. I think my Dad would have preferred socks and cashews.

Skimming through the pages, old memories returned. Each day was a chronicle of my experience — subtle moments of joy straining against reality's heavy, sombre seams.

Truthfully, I couldn’t read it for long and had to put it away, out of sight. Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t handle another word. Not because it was too emotional, raw or painful…

Because it fucking sucked.

The cancer theme alone set itself up to be a home run. Look at The Fault In Our Stars. That film made $307.2 million, and it’s just two hours and six minutes of sick kids.

I had thousands of hours of experience being a sick kid.

I can’t believe I fell in love with this guy in the film, and then he died at the end (sorry, that’s a huge spoiler)

I guess there’s more to mining your trauma for creative inspiration than recounting how many times you vomited each day (my record was eleven). Is that why Spielberg won’t return my emails and turn my story into a major Hollywood motion picture?

Maybe.

It's more likely because I don’t have his email address, but if he cared enough about making cool films, he’d find a way to find me, so I assign him 100% of the fault (I consider this the fault in his stars).

That moment of introspection—seeing how terrible my writing was—was eye-opening for someone who spends upwards of two hours a week writing a newsletter (the very newsletter you’re reading!).

Outside of this sandbox, I’m a professional writer who personally knows thousands hundreds of words (even if I need help spelling them sometimes). Sure, TikTok and sending Snapchats of your genitals might be all the rage today, but writing never goes out of style.

That’s why the less-than-stellar quality of my hospital-era diary was a shock. I still remember thinking I was crafting a work of literary stardust at the time.

Despite being occupied with chemo and letting nurses know whether I had emptied my bowels, I was fairly certain my work would place me among literary giants.

One of the (many) macabre thoughts I had during treatment was that if I died, my diary would probably reach peak status — the same way a great painter’s final work skyrockets in value. I figured you’d find my work among the world’s most well-known diaries, like Anne Frank or Bridget Jones.

Instead, I was re-reading a second-rate description of what hospital food tasted like on day 197 in the cancer ward.

“Dinner came with bread today. Pretty good. Didn’t use the butter.”

It’s brief, but no Hemingway.

Frustratingly, it’s very difficult to improve on a cancer diary. If you want to redo the work, you have to get cancer again, which is a significant commitment.

Plus, Gonzo journalism is so 1970’s. It’s all fun and games when Hunter S. Thompson takes a trunk full of drugs and rampages through Las Vegas, but standing next to a nuclear reactor in the hope of a relapse might be pushing things too far.

My nurse wife would probably be against that if she existed.

“So, Alexander, what did you do?” - You

That’s such a good question. Thank you. You’ve really moved the narrative forward with that.

Realising there was no fixing the fuck-up that was my cancer diary, I had no choice but to look back at my evolution as a writer.

Had my newsletter been more of a snooze-letter all this time? Or is coming up with a pun like “snooze-letter” evidence to the contrary? I felt like one of those monkeys trying to make sense of its reflection in the mirror.

After leaning closer to the metaphorical glass, I saw I’d slowly pushed myself to improve and grow. I’ve been fortunate enough to make a living tapping on a keyboard — with the last four years working as my own boss from the comfort of my home.

Things might have started slowly, but I’d done some cool stuff by staying the course.

I was an Instagram caption ghostwriter for a bikini photographer with 297k followers, a freelance copywriter who made over $100,000 on Upwork, the Head of Copy for a Sydney marketing agency, a product copywriter for a business selling Chemo Support Boxes to other cancer patients—the list goes on.

I’m not giving you a look at my CV highlights to turn this into a job interview (though I will accept a glass of water if you are offering one, then leave it on the table without taking a sip as a psychological mind game). I’m telling you because I realised I was being hard on myself — and you are, too.

Schrödinger’s glass of water

Go easy on yourself this festive season.

You might not be looking to improve your writing, but I know there’s some goal in your head whose progress (or lack of) is making you feel like a failure.

It’s easy to start judging yourself at this time of year. The holiday season is all bright lights and candy canes, but it can trigger tough internal conversations, and when there’s so little road left ahead in the year, it’s instinctive to reflect on how far you’ve come.

Maybe you wish you’d made more progress in your career, body, relationship — whatever. This isn’t about addressing a specific action. It’s about tweaking your mindset.

This Christmas season, let’s put less pressure on doing something well and have more appreciation for doing something at all. Slow progress is better than no progress. It’s your life. You set the pace. You determine the timeline.

It wasn’t that I was an objectively bad writer in my cancer diary days. I just wasn’t as far along the path as I am now.

At the same time, I know I’m not the finished product — I’m no Dr. Seuss (I don’t even know what Green Eggs are, let alone having graduated Medical School). But having the awareness to see there’s room to grow can release the pressure of feeling like you haven’t changed as much as you’d like.

When I look back at my writing in another ten years, I hope I cringe at it the way I’m cringing at my cancer diary today— possibly with skills augmented by the latest artificial intelligence as I zoom around Mars in a pair of new space shoes.

I was early on my writing journey, and you’re early on yours, too — whatever that journey is. So go easy on yourself the next time your instinct is to self-scold for lack of progress, skill or achievement.

Let’s wrap this up in 19 seconds.

If my cancer diary taught me anything (which is a stretch), it’s that not being the finished form doesn’t mean you’re not on the right path.

Not everything has to be done with total perfection. Have you ever had one of those disfigured vegetables they sell cheaply at the supermarket?

Yeah, me neither.

But I bet those freaky-looking carrots still taste like regular carrots. They’re not perfect, but that doesn’t mean they’re not valuable.

The same goes for you, you sexy little carrot. 🥕

One day, you’ll see how far you’ve come. Stay the course. You’re going in the right direction.

Oh, and remember, your Dad wants socks and cashews for Christmas, not the book you’re working on.

With love,

New World Porter

P.S. If you enjoyed this post, please leave a Like or Comment with the button below (takes 0.46 seconds) so I can think terribly filthy thoughts about you. 👇