During my formative years, I bore witness to my grandmother’s valiant triumph over breast cancer. For more than a decade afterward, our family cherished every milestone—every birthday and anniversary was a victory lap, made sweeter by the simple fact that she was there to share it with us.
Earlier this year, my wife and I celebrated the arrival of our daughter. She is a beautiful beacon of new life, yet she will never know her great-grandmother’s embrace. That meeting is an impossibility.
In 2023, the cancer returned with a cruel vengeance, and I wasn’t there to say goodbye. I was on a professional assignment in France when the call came—a moment etched into my memory with haunting clarity. I remember how the inviting aroma of my dinner instantly turned stomach-churning. I remember the silent understanding in my colleague’s eyes as I excused myself. Most of all, I remember the sunset that evening; it was a vista of such transcendent beauty that it felt like a final message from her—a quiet assurance that her suffering had ended. Back in my hotel room, I wept for hours, consumed by a desperate wish to see her one last time and a primal urge to crush the very concept of cancer like a piece of blighted fruit, purging its filth from the earth.
My resentment toward cancer is deep-seated and visceral. It is a thief that pillages without remorse, an infection that taints everything it touches, and a predator that strikes indiscriminately. I want to believe she has found peace in some better realm, far removed from the agony she endured. But the scars remain—for my grandfather, who speaks often of his readiness to join her; for my mother, who watched her own parent fade; and for me. I have always loathed this disease, but now that hatred has become a part of my identity.
Warning: The following contains significant plot spoilers for Total Chaos.
On the surface, Total Chaos is a traditional horror experience, replete with visceral gore, grotesque entities, and pervasive dread. Yet, for me, it transformed into a medium for profound catharsis. It granted me the agency to take a variety of crude, makeshift implements and drive them into the heart of a metaphorical rot. Every crushing blow and every discharged round felt like a personal victory against the decay. I found a grim satisfaction in tearing through the mysterious ailment that ravages Tyler—the game’s central figure—as he grapples with the wreckage of malignancy, depression, and the collateral damage these afflictions inflict on everyone nearby.
Fort Oasis was once a thriving community, the place Tyler and his wife called home. Eventually, that home devolved into a prison. Tyler was physically anchored to this crumbling ruin, while his wife grew desperate to flee back to the mainland and the support of her kin. She could no longer bear the psychological toll of watching Tyler’s illness and subsequent despair transform him into a stranger—a man now capable of fashioning nails, rocks, and scrap metal into instruments of slaughter used to decimate the cancerous legions wandering the town.
These adversaries are shambling, indistinct masses of muscle and gore. While one might find their lack of distinct features a point of criticism, I found it poignantly accurate. Cancer is inherently lifeless; it is a void that consumes humanity to sustain itself. These enemies are clusters of cells that have abandoned their purpose, becoming something that does not deserve the air it breathes. I hunted them with singular focus. While the game frequently suggests evasion as a survival tactic, I chose instead to expend every resource to ensure every creature stayed buried. I struck at their lifeless forms with a fury fueled by the memory of the cells that tried to diminish my grandmother’s spirit.
To some, this is a nightmare. To me, it was an exorcism.
The labyrinthine environments of the game lost their mystery and became my personal hunting grounds. I scavenged every corner for supplies—medkits, scrap, even tainted food—just to prolong my crusade. Total Chaos is a mechanical struggle against hunger, injury, and depletion, but my gameplay was driven by a desire to strike one more blow in her honor.
Over the twelve hours I spent immersed in this world, Tyler’s journey became a mirror of my own. I was reminded of the countless moments I held my grandmother’s hand, silently imploring her to persevere. She fought for me; in turn, I fought for Tyler. They both shared a singular, simple yearning: the desire to be free.
To overcome cancer is to outlast a poison. Chemotherapy is a scorched-earth policy; it terminates the corruption while simultaneously taxing the host. Survival is a game of endurance against a force that is part of yourself. I trekked through hedge mazes of explosive remains and urban forests of flesh, descending toward the necrotic core of Tyler’s suffering.
The conclusion is a paradox: Tyler must outlive himself. One facet of the man is desperate to persist, while the other is exhausted and yearns for repose.
In that final confrontation, the violence ceased only after I had spent every last bullet into the epicenter of the agony. Only then was he liberated. As the credits began to roll, the turmoil subsided. A strange mixture of shadow and light lingered over the remains of Fort Oasis. I choose to believe Tyler found his peace, wherever that may be—surely, he isn’t hurting anymore.
If you or a loved one is navigating the challenges of cancer, the Cancer Support Community offers a toll-free hotline available daily at 888-793-9355.
