Today is my 3-year cancerversary (it’s a made up term but just pretend it’s real). Three years ago at roughly 10am, I got the call that confirmed I had invasive breast cancer. Shock, denial, anger – I went through all the steps.
Surgery after surgery after surgery followed by complications, but what are you going to do?
Cancer has changed my life, my appearance, my attitude, my priorities. I honestly don’t know why I’m still alive when I already know of so many people diagnosed at the same time as me and even after who are not.
I can not say that I am in constant pain, but I am in constant discomfort. Surgery does that to a body. A reminder that life is short and we’d better do what we need to do NOW.
When I first started my cancer journey, I decided to mark each success with some kind of acknowledgement. I set up an altar of power.
I added figures of strong women as I passed significant milestones.
- Surviving one month after surgery
- Surviving 6 months after diagnosis
- Surviving one year
- Surviving two years
And today I will be adding my three year figurine.
It took some time to decide what I should place on my altar. Should I go funny? Mythical? Historical? Maternal?
In hindsight the answer was so obvious. I chose Elphaba from the book (and the musical and the movie) Wicked.
And so now Elphaba sits on my altar, a testament not only to my persevering but also to all of the others who have traveled this insane, terrifying, soul wrenching, and yet somehow life enhancing path.
As someone told me lately “Everyone deserves the chance to fly” – Elphaba
Elphaba—the so-called Wicked Witch of the West—isn’t your typical hero. But then again, real heroes rarely are. In Gregory Maguire’s Wicked, she’s the outsider with green skin and a spine of steel, navigating a world that doesn’t understand her and frankly doesn’t want to. Sound familiar? It should. Because if you’ve ever been through something like cancer, you know what it’s like to be marked, stared at, misunderstood, and shut out.
She’s born different. Not “quirky,” not “unusual”—green. She gets mocked, avoided, and misread from day one. The world doesn’t give her a break. Cancer patients know that feeling well. You lose your hair, your strength, sometimes your sense of self—and suddenly, you’re not just sick, you’re alien. People don’t know what to say. Or worse, they say the wrong things. But Elphaba doesn’t crawl into a corner and disappear. She stares the world down and walks straight into the fire. She owns who she is, and that kind of defiance? That’s power.
But she’s not just tough—she’s got a conscience. A big one. She sees injustice and actually does something about it. Not for show, not for applause, but because it eats at her not to. She pays for it, too. Loses safety, comfort, reputation. Cancer can turn people into quiet warriors like that—people who start fundraising, pushing for better care, speaking out when the system screws up. There’s no ribbon for that kind of fight, but it matters. It matters a lot.
What really sticks with you, though, is that Elphaba never sells out. Even when the world calls her evil, twists her story into something grotesque—she stays true. She doesn’t chase acceptance, she chases truth. That’s not easy when everything around you is falling apart. But if you’re sick, scared, and stripped raw by chemo or radiation, holding onto even a sliver of yourself can feel like the most rebellious act in the world.
Elphaba’s story may be wrapped in fantasy, but the heart of it is dead real. She’s a reminder that being different isn’t a curse—it’s a kind of freedom. That standing up for what’s right, even when you’re alone, is worth it. And that in a world that tries to box you in or write you off, there’s something deeply noble about saying, No. I’m still here. And I’m still me.
For anyone fighting cancer, she’s not just a character—she’s a damn anthem.
