Cancer MVP

Here’s the thing no one tells you about cancer: It takes a village. An entire one. With snacks, spreadsheets, and people who don’t flinch when you dry heave mid-sentence into a bright blue puke bag.

Luckily, I have that village. My friends have been next-level. And by “next-level,” I mean they’ve made me feel deeply loved every step of the way and offered help in ways I didn't know I needed.

But the real MVP? My best friend. She’s a social worker — because apparently the universe was like, “Let’s give Jill cancer and a built-in crisis manager. Balance!”

She drives over two hours every week to help me sort my medications, because despite being a semi-functional adult with car payments and a decent vocabulary, I cannot for the life of me figure out which tiny beige pill keeps me alive and which one turns me into a raging lunatic. It’s a game of pharmaceutical Russian roulette, and I'm always the loser. So she does it. With Ziplocks, Sharpies and a ridiculous amount of patience.

She’s been to every single doctor’s appointment, and has cried with me, laughed with me, and bemoaned along with me. She's my emotional support human.

Here’s the part that sucker punches me at 3AM: We probably won’t get to be little old ladies together. And we had plans: Retirement community mischief. Matching scooters. Piña colada-fueled bingo.... And now… likely not.

I’m so lucky to have her. But also, I’m furious. Cancer is a thief, and it doesn’t just take your health, it takes your future... and your fucking beach walks.