Rachel’s first cancer diagnosis was for early-stage DCIS breast cancer in 2005. Her second, more threatening diagnosis came over a decade later for a rare, high-grade, neuroendocrine cancer in her colon that metastasized to her lung. A professional marketer, Rachel is passionate about writing about the impact of cancer and hopes it can help caregivers, family and friends have a better understanding of what life is like as a patient. 

Rachel Martin

“Star Wars” is my favorite movie series of all time. I love the characters, the plot, the action and the winding down of each storyline where, despite the odds, we’re always left with a feeling of hope.

Hope has been a foundational message in “Star Wars.” While subtle in some of the movies, it’s front and center in “A New Hope,” which tells the story of Luke and Han saving the galaxy and Princess Leia (who we can now recognize as a warrior who didn’t need “saving”). Several decades later, hope reemerges in “Rogue One: A Star Wars Story” where a once-skeptical Jyn gets on board to steal the plans for the Death Star, telling others in doubt that“rebellions are built on hope.” 

Cancer patients and survivors are also rebels who have to find hope. We rise in opposition to our bodies turning on us and we dig deep to access resiliency to pursue survival. We’re tougher than we think but of course it’s not really a choice. We are forced to find resilience and to fight back against our compromised health, becoming educated in language and options in front of us that we wish we didn’t have to learn about. We resist becoming a statistic or being marginalized as just a patient ID number.

Even our biggest supporters and caregivers don’t always understand the depths of pain, fear, worry and anxiety we feel. It’s important to recognize that their wounds are just as real and they’ve got different battles to face. But just like any other trauma, I don’t think you can truly understand what it’s like to have cancer unless you have lived through the experience yourself.

I’ve been working since I was 13 and in the business world, they’ll tell you hope is not a strategy to rely on for success. There is absolute truth in this. Hope won’t get your new product launched or that promotion you want without someone recognizing your talents.

But when it comes to our personal lives, hope is one tool of many that should live in our cancer toolbox. Whether you’re a patient, survivor, caregiver or friend, hoping for the future, for good news, for new beginnings, is a support mechanism that can absolutely keep us going even when we’re at our lowest.

I tend to be a worrier. I think the worst is going to happen in an attempt to make it less painful when the moment of truth arrives. But amidst that anxiety, I always have a sliver of hope that maybe, it’s not going to be as bad as I think it is. And when it comes to the current cadence of my six-month CT scans to check for my very aggressive, rare neuroendocrine cancer, I hang on to that hope as my literal lifeline.

Hope can be found in many places. I find it listening to the birds whistle to each other as I walk by. I see it in daily sunrises and sunsets reminding me that no matter what, the world keeps on turning. And I see it in other cancer patients and survivors who fight hard and keep smiling through all of it, inspiring me to become more like them.

Wherever and however it shows up, hope reminds us that even when it’s dark, there’s also light. And that no matter where we are in our cancer journey, finding hope within and from those around us can help make every moment that’s hard, just a little bit easier.

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In part of the “Star Wars” saga, a character mentions that rebellions are built on hope. After being diagnosed with cancer, I’ve realized that the same is true for patients with the disease.  

In 'Star Wars' and in Cancer, ‘Rebellions Are Built on Hope’

Don’t stop worrying, don’t stop feeling sorry, don’t stop praying, don’t stop showing up, don’t stop offering help, don’t stop listening.

We cancer survivors are complicated — not more complicated than others who have faced their mortality head-on, but there’s a certain bucket we get put in when we let others know about our diagnoses. Many people just don’t know what to do with the information.

Yes, we’re survivors and thrivers and patients and caregivers and people just like everyone else trying to make every day count. The difference between those of us who have been diagnosed with cancer and those who haven’t, is that we now live every day with provided proof that we are indeed, mortal.

I look around and see many people who don’t go to doctors or who have clean bills of health no matter what they do or don’t do, no matter what they eat or drink — and I am envious of the clean slate they have. Yes, we will all die someday. But they’re not living with the constant fear that at any moment, our bodies can turn on us and make us sick. The likelihood of cancer returning can be high. I now live in six-month increments between CT scans. I’m lucky. It used to be three.

As my next CT scan creeps up, I find myself feeling more anxious than usual; I’ve self-diagnosed myself with anticipatory anxiety, and boy does it show up two to four weeks before I’m heading in. The perpetual pit in my stomach gets larger, and my adrenaline is omnipresent.

These appointments are terrifying for me. It’s not just about the results. It’s about the process. The returning to the scene. The smells of the hospital. The wristband that makes me a number. The observing of other cancer patients. The waiting room. The CT machine that feels like a coffin. Hold your breath. Breathe. The waiting for results that dictate my near and long-term future.

I’m generally a loner and find solace in silence. I will often talk to myself because I don’t want to burden others and/or I’m leery that those I talk to will not be able to reciprocate the conversation the way I want or expect. It’s human nature to empathize and one way we do that is to recognize ourselves in someone else’s situation. But I often find that conversations about me turn into conversations about someone else. And then I just get frustrated and turned off.

When I talk to myself, most of the time logic and data are unable to override emotion and fear. I tell myself not to borrow worry. I tell myself that whatever my results, I’m going to deal with it the same way I’ve already dealt with it. I tell myself that knowing is better than not knowing because I can take action if I need to. I tell myself I’m not alone. I hope someday, I’ll listen.

This post was written and submitted by Rachel Martin. The article reflects the views of Rachel Martin and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

We cancer survivors are complicated — not more complicated than others who have faced their mortality head-on, but there’s a certain bucket we get put in when we let others know about our diagnoses. 

Rachel Martin

In 'Star Wars' and in Cancer, ‘Rebellions Are Built on Hope’

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