Danielle Ripley-Burgess is a two-time colon cancer survivor first diagnosed at age 17, an award-winning communications professional and the author of Blush: How I barely survived 17. She writes and speaks to encourage others that faith can survive. Also, she bakes a really good chocolate chip cookie. Follow her blog at DanielleRipleyBurgess.com or connect on social media at @DanielleisB.

Danielle Ripley-Burgess

Most of the time, if we were going to sit down to chat about my experience with cancer, you’d find me upbeat and optimistic. I’m a fairly positive person, and that comes out when I tell 

. But it’s important for me to not sugar-coat the challenging parts. It’s true: facing cancer brings both ups and downs. Some of the most joy-filled moments are usually contrasted with intense, heart-stabbing pains. One of my most searing pains doesn’t involve the scars, bathroom emergency stories or treatment side effects that linger today. It involves the reality that because of cancer, I deal with infertility. This ache follows me every day.

The words flow off my tongue now, as I’m quick to label myself as infertile and explain why I don’t have biological kids. I can talk about it without crying and even wrote this article with relative ease. But make no mistake: It took me more than 10 years to get here. Nothing feels natural when you’re dealing with infertility.

At first, I wasn’t concerned about my situation regarding childbearing. 

Diagnosed with colon cancer at 17 years old

, I knew the treatments could affect my chances of having biological kids, but I didn’t really care. I had always planned to adopt, even before I got cancer. Plus, I had other things on my mind. I was just hoping to enroll in my senior year of high school.

I didn’t put a lot of thought into what it meant for the doctors to perform an ovarian suspension prior to radiation therapy. Looking back, I can also see how I blocked a lot of fear. Why were common 

 like freezing eggs not an option for me? There was no time. Doctors couldn’t prioritize my ability to create future life and delay treatment with my own life on the line. It was scary stuff, things I didn’t want to think about.

Preserving Fertility in Adolescent and Young Adult Women with Cancer

For years, being infertile didn’t bother me too much. My husband and I considered ourselves fortunate to know I was infertile going into our marriage. We were in no rush for kids, and even when the time came, we didn’t go through years of trying to get pregnant only to face surprising disappointment. Knowing ahead of time saved us a lot of heartbreak. I could count my blessings.

But by the time I hit my mid-20s, when a lot of my friends and family members started getting pregnant, the pain of infertility hit me out of nowhere. The blessings I’d once counted were thrown out the window. Infertility went from something I barely thought about to something that, if I let it, consumed my life. It was like a thief in the night, stealing what I held so dear. Yet the crazy thing was that it stole something that never had a chance at life. This made it even harder. As the reality of my barrenness sunk in, it led me to a dark place. To feel so powerless over whether or not you can create a life, while being physiologically built to create and carry life, is devastating.

Adoption Does not Take Away Infertility Pain

I wondered, like I imagine most infertile couples considering adoption do, if the pain of infertility would go away once the role of “mother” became a reality. Adoption agencies cautioned us to give ourselves enough time to grieve a biological child. I understood their wisdom once a baby girl gave me the proud title of mom. While our bundle of joy did indeed bring healing, laughter and light into our world, it didn’t take away my infertility pains and the reality that I couldn’t bear children like her birth mother did. As I processed this and became real and open about my feelings, 

adoption became the blessing on the other side of the pain

. However, adoption alone didn’t take the pain away. Only time and healing can.

As I mentioned earlier, it’s taken me over a decade to get to the point where I can openly talk about infertility. I started telling my cancer story within months of my diagnosis but talking about what it’s like to be a barren woman has taken a lot of time. I needed to grieve and find non-judgmental spaces to let my true feelings come out. I needed to give myself permission to feel angry, cheated and hopeless. I needed to skip baby showers, cry and acknowledge that not having biological children, but wanting them, is really, really hard. Even now, some days are easier than others.

All of this work did eventually turn things around for me. Today, I live with optimism and hope. I’m able to count my blessings once again, but only because I count the losses too.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, don’t forget to 

Articles

A colon cancer survivor recalls how she made peace with being infertile as a result of cancer treatments.

The Infertility Ache of Cancer

Like many parts of the country, my hometown of Kansas City is blanketed in a layer of snow. Despite the hazardous road conditions and freezing temperatures, it’s really pretty.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been told no two snowflakes are exactly alike. I would test the theory by pressing my nose against a cold windowpane to study the flakes caught in the screen during a snowfall. As far as I could tell, the adults were right. No two snowflakes had the exact same pattern, shape and design. I found this to be a good way to view people the older I got. All jokes and put-downs aside, the snowflake is a powerful metaphor for how to see and respect others.

As a young girl, I embraced being a tomboy and preferred basketball over Barbies. I also loved books, piano and theatre. All this made me unique; I enjoyed both sports and the arts, and I rejected anything frilly. While many of the other girls took dance, played with dolls and loved wearing dresses, I was different. I was secure in this uniqueness until I hit the infamous tween years. During what felt like a sudden change, I was embarrassed I’d never owned ballet shoes and knew how to plie. I thought my clothes needed to come from certain stores in the mall and I spent $100 of my own money on Doc Martins. I needed to be the same as the other students in my middle and high school. I needed to fit in, for that meant survival.

At 17 years old, something happened that took away the relevance of my Docs and gave me a new understanding of survival mode. I was 

diagnosed with colon cancer my junior year of high school

. Suddenly, I felt like an odd ball out— again—and my name-brand clothes couldn’t help. I started doing 

 decades before virtual schooling became a thing. While my peers were congregating near their lockers and cramming for math tests, I was getting chemo. To get through the shock, pain and grief of losing a “normal” high school experience, I had to accept my uniqueness again. It took time, but I eventually became proud of being a teenage colon cancer survivor. It’s something very few others in the world can say.

Part of getting to this point involved joining advocate communities where I’ve met other survivors who can relate. Through 

, I have met a handful of others who were diagnosed in their teens and twenties. I’ve met patients with 

, those who’ve undergone a subtotal colectomy, and other long-term survivors who also deal with radiation side effects decades after treatment. Thanks to these groups, I know I’m not the only one who has 

 (a term now used to describe what happened to me). In fact, I get together with advocates each March to tell my story during 

 and ask lawmakers to support policies like a younger screening age, more research funding, and access to care for everyone — not only a well-insured, privileged few.

From the outside, our stories may look the same, like a blanket of snow covering the ground. And typically, we present similar asks — that’s how advocacy works. But just like the tiny flakes after a fresh snow, if you get personal with patients, you’ll quickly notice differences in both personality and experience. Despite similarities, no two survivors are exactly alike.

Some can eat French fries and ice cream, others said goodbye to meat and dairy a long time ago. Intimacy is a struggle for some, not for others. Some colorectal cancer survivors have ostomies, neuropathy and hair loss, others don’t face any of those things. Some survivors can laugh and joke about their experiences, others tear up at the thought or get really angry.

Some are very private, others start Facebook groups, Twitter accounts and Instagram hashtags. Some had to fight to get access to screening and others were basically bribed by a doctor to get checked. Some survivors are mad at God, others can’t imagine surviving cancer without their faith.

Like any other group, cancer survivors are as unique as they are the same. What I’ve learned about survivorship after all these years is that it works a lot like the snow. When we recognize and accept our differences, yet resolve to move forward together, it can create real change and beautiful things.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, don’t forget to

Cancer survivors are just like snowflakes in that they are unique and not the same, says a two-time cancer survivor.

No Two Cancer Survivors Are Exactly Alike

“Danielle, I found a lump. I know it’s cancer.”

That’s how one of the most unexpected calls of my life began earlier this year. As a storyteller who has spent years telling cancer patients’ stories, and a 

, I didn’t think anything could catch me by surprise.

Earlier this year, my dear friend Anjee Davis told me she had breast cancer. The world stopped spinning for a second and it took my breath away. How could this be? Not Anjee.

I’d met her many years prior when the organization we both worked for, 

, was growing. She’d been hired to run programs and needed a communications director. From a business sense, she recruited me. When looking at it through a nonprofit lens, she invited me into something world changing. She’d just dreamed up an awareness campaign for 

March—Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month

. She called it One Million Strong and asked me to help her build it.

Side by side, our lives revolved around every March. We worked hard to champion those we called “strong”—those who’d heard, “It’s cancer” either as a patient, caregiver or loved one. We tapped into survivors’ emotions and needs to discern how to best help them. We unpacked caregivers’ fears. We had long discussions about how to inspire those who had been dealt a tough hand to take action themselves. We poured hours of our lives into creating spaces and events where advocates could find purpose in their pain, and community with one another.

Every March, it was time for the survivors to shine.

As moms and wives, we were juggling the same things—not only jobs, but family too. Over time, we grew from passionate colleagues into dear friends. We celebrated not only organizational successes but moments of personal growth and healing. As a cancer survivor working in full-time cancer advocacy, I faced several dark moments. Anjee helped me through the triggers and complexities of survivorship. Never did I imagine that one day the tables would turn.

Instead of being the patient, I became the friend. Instead of surviving, I supported.

Anjee would often call to explain her scans, surgeries and decisions about reconstruction. Although very familiar with cancer I was learning a new lingo. There are commonalities in all of cancer, but each cancer type is unique. 

 were two different ball games and they needed different things.

Thanks to Nikki, a close family member with a recent breast cancer diagnosis, I had some practice in supporting a survivor fighting a different cancer type than mine. Anjee’s diagnosis continued to teach me how to support. She didn’t call to hear how I got through cancer, she called for a listening ear. She needed a space to air her emotions and be reassured it’s 

 and that she had the strength to fight. This required me to take off my “patient hat” and simply be an empathetic friend.

As a leading cancer advocate, Anjee applied her skills and passion to her own cancer. She found great doctors and made proactive, hard decisions. Being open about her situation allowed her to set important boundaries. Receiving others’ support and care led to her hitting the recovery road quickly.

Thankfully, she’s now doing well now. She’s even 

Anjee and I are still advocating for colorectal cancer together in addition to chatting about family and life. We’re dreaming, as always, that this March is the best one yet. But this year, and what I plan on becoming every year, I’m taking a pause to be more intentional about celebrating October. Why? Because I’ve learned what being a good friend to a cancer survivor takes. And this month, it looks like making sure Anjee, Nikki and other breast cancer survivors, get their time to shine.

When my friend was diagnosed with breast cancer, my role became supporter over survivor.

Becoming The Supporter Over The Cancer Survivor

My friend Dustin is surprised I kept the note he slipped me while in church over a decade ago. I can’t recall what prompted it, but I vividly remember looking down the row and seeing a torn corner of bulletin with a scribbled note making its way toward me.

“You should write a book. Seriously.”

 (my first diagnosis came at age 17). To cope, I started a blog. He had been enjoying my posts and encouraged me to not only keep writing them, but to go for a bigger project: a book. He was one of many who encouraged me to become an author.

It took more than ten years, but I followed through on the insistence of putting my life stories into a long-form book. I’m now a proud memoir author. I know I’m not the only person who has survived cancer and felt the urge to write about it. This is a common reaction amongst those who’ve faced a life-threatening situation and it’s a great way to find purpose in light of the pain.

Both survivors and caregivers have powerful stories to tell and I believe the world needs more hopeful and inspirational stories. I encourage all aspiring authors to do it: write a book! 

Our stories help make the disease real for people

Because I’m fresh out the gate on the publishing process, I wanted to offer fellow writers some advice. If you’re considering writing a book about surviving cancer, here are seven things you’ll need.

I kept Dustin’s note, as well as emails, cards and voicemails I had received containing similar encouragement. If you’re planning to write a book, gather this at the start. It will help you get going, and it will sustain you as you face the inevitable writer’s block. Encouragement from readers is fuel for writers. And yes, the world does need another inspiring cancer book, it needs yours.

To publish a book, you typically have three options: self-publish, hybrid publish or traditionally publish. Unless you’re well-known and/or famous in your field, have a massive social media following, or happened to pen a viral post, it’s unlikely that, as a new author, you’ll get a traditional publishing contract. (You might but keep your options open!) Thankfully, there are several options and ways to publish. For your book to appear professional and easy to read, you’ll want to get a line editor involved. Hybrid publishers will insist on them and even if you self-publish, budgeting for line editing services is well worth the investment.

A line editor is the first editor you want reading your rough draft. His or her job isn’t fixing your grammatical errors and typos, that’s for copy editors and proofreaders. A line editor makes sure your voice is clear, your narrative flows, and your story is complete. All great books have a great line editor behind them.

To pen a book, you’ll need lots of content — like around 50,000 words if not more. To squeeze out that many words, I highly recommend gathering as much documentation about your cancer experience as possible. For my memoir, I pulled from journal entries over 20 years, email updates, printouts from doctor’s visits, lab reports, and even my dad’s daily planner from 2001. All these things helped me create a timeline, which turned into an outline. This historical record didn’t only verify the accuracy of my book, but it served as a springboard for memories.

Even if you haven’t journaled, blogged or kept a calendar throughout your cancer journey, it’s likely that you’ve sent texts or posted updates on social media. All of this is very helpful if you want to write a book. Find ways to archive it now.

Writing can dig up a lot of feelings, which can make for a great day or a painful day. Go easy on yourself as you start writing your book. Expect several hills and valleys. As I worked on my memoir, the words would flow on some days. On others, I felt totally stuck and lost in a sea of pain. I struggled to make sense of my messy rough drafts. At times, I lacked the perseverance to keep returning to my manuscript and flirted with the idea of never finishing. Just know that this is all part of writing a book and remember to give lots of compassion to yourself. Facing cancer takes a lot of patience, and so does writing about it.

Almost all writers can tell you about a space, or a handful of spaces, where they get their best writing done. Usually they’re spots infused with creativity and silence. I personally have a list of several locations I visit to focus my mind, get inspired, and write. If you’re going to write a book, be intentional about finding a writing space, and visit it often.

In addition to a physical location, it’s also important to make space on your calendar to write. Pencil it in, just as you would a doctor’s appointment or coffee with friends. Your book won’t write itself; you’ll need to make time for it. Finding space is critical to getting it done.

The best writers are also readers. As you begin writing your book, read a few other books, especially cancer books, to help you find your own voice. What details about your illness do you also want to share? What would you rather keep private? Are you going to take a funny or lighthearted tone, or do you want to be more serious and emotional? These are important questions to ask yourself.

There’s not a “right” way to write a book about cancer, and many authors have done it. Get a feel for how you’re similar and different to other authors by reading their work. It will help you have confidence in how you want to tell your story.

Writing a book about your cancer experience will put you up close and personal with your emotions. The most compelling stories include not just facts and timelines of a cancer experience, but the feelings it evoked. Writing this out can be challenging, but it’s also incredibly healing. When you dive into your emotions and process them, you’ll find even more strength and maturity.

You’ll need this maturity as you walk through the publishing process. Being a writer requires thick skin, as rejection letters, tough editing and critical reviews also come with making your story public. But, the process of writing a book will strengthen your emotional health and give you everything you need to tell a great story and inspire your readers.

An author and two-time cancer survivor offers fellow writers some advice on what they’ll need to know if they’re considering writing a book about surviving cancer. 

Danielle Ripley-Burgess

The Infertility Ache of Cancer

No Two Cancer Survivors Are Exactly Alike

Becoming The Supporter Over The Cancer Survivor

7 Things You Will Need When Writing a Book About Surviving Cancer

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