Young, Black, and Battling Cancer
As a healthy thirtysomething, I thought it was impossible
But I’m Black and I’m in my thirties! These were the first thoughts that crossed my mind when I sat in front of my doctor that day in April some years ago when he confirmed that I had cancer.
I’d long bought into the myth that young Black men were immune to the failings of the body — failings I had characterized as the province of the old and White. Could I get diabetes? Yes. Strokes? Sure. Sickle cell anemia? Okay. But cancer? Not at all.
A few weeks before my initial diagnosis, I began to feel more tired than usual and less alert. I had recently started a dream job working with the then-director general of the World Trade Organization. It was intense, high-pressured, and fascinating — everything I wanted at that point in my life. So I figured my symptoms were just a sign that my body was adjusting to this new phase of constant traveling, being on call 24/7, and being in the thick of it all. But then I felt a lump.
Every day I felt that lump, and I ignored it. I thought if I didn’t give it life, it would cease to exist.
One night, I watched one of those throwaway medical shows on television. It had that usual appealing mix of medicine, voyeurism, and sadomasochism. In the episode, a young…
