Making Peace with Cancer

Battle. Fight. Warrior. Survivor. Words normally reserved for war are almost ubiquitous with a cancer patient’s experience. It’s understandable; these words evoke strength and courage, much-needed sentiments for patients and their loved ones. I’m actively choosing to not use these words anymore for my cancer journey. 

There’s a voice in me that, largely for therapeutic purposes, I’ve named Stu. Stu is my anxiety, my fear, my OCD, and that voice we ALL have that insidiously whispers, “what if...?” While I am the driver of the car that is my life, for a large part of that life, Stu has had a firm grip on the steering wheel next to my own hands. Every few minutes of every day, Stu’s taut-yet-quivering hand would jerk the steering wheel into a hard left while suddenly screaming, “OH GOD LOOK OUT! THIS IS BAD!! This is REALLY BAD!” Imagine if someone was doing this to you anytime you drove anywhere. You’d probably be a nervous wreck; I certainly was. 

So for years, I made an effort to place Stu in the back seat of that car. Hell, can we fit him in the trunk? Duct tape his mouth shut, even? I can’t tell you how many therapy sessions and discussions with my husband included the phrase, “Tell Stu, 'thanks for the input,' but now it’s time to be quiet.” It felt like a reasonable compromise, though rarely extreme enough to counteract the many miserable years of letting Stu swerve the car all over the road. 

Then it dawned on me (likely due to the aforementioned therapy and discussions) that Stu was not someone to be shoved away or ignored, tempting as that was. Stu does not inherently mean me harm; he’s scared. Terrified of everything. Trying to warn me of danger in the most alarmist way in an effort to protect me. He was scared the way a small child would be, crying out for the reaffirmation that things are going to be okay. Stu didn’t need to be tied up and gagged, or told to shut up; Stu needed a fucking hug. I started rethinking my entire relationship with Stu in the context of being kind and nurturing to this part of me. What good was it doing shoving him away? The compassion opens up a new doorway with Stu: "Hey, let’s sit down. Have a cookie. Tell me why you’re scared. It’s okay. Here's a hug. It’ll be alright.” Stu is my frightened inner child that is doing what he thinks is best the only way he knows how. It is up to me to step up and be the parent to that child.

Cancer isn’t too dissimilar from Stu, in my mind. My DNA, despite doing its best, took a hard left and started doing something that it thinks it should be doing, not understanding the consequences. It’s the same process that causes us to age and eventually die: DNA doesn’t replicate the same way forever, it starts doing its own thing and eventually can't sustain.

So why “fight” this? A process that is admittedly scary and chaotic, though out of my control. Do I want to be at war with my own body? To be angry at a part of me that truly does not understand what its doing to itself?

I recently realized the answer to all of this is "no." After my cancer came back, it was fairly clear that there was little chance of a “cure” for my disease. Cutting out the original tumor was my best shot at that, and yet, less than a year later that silly DNA started up again literally right where it left off. I began to retool my mindset from someone free of cancer to someone living with it. As my treatment is now about keeping the tumor stable, I’m seeing this disease as a chronic condition I’m living with instead of an assassin ready to strike at any time. 

At night I’ve been taking showers, and while the hot water cascades over me, I hold myself and talk to my stomach- I suppose I’m really talking to the cancer, too. “You did really good today. We ate. We worked. You’re doing the best you can. Thank you.”

There is too much ugliness in the world and I will not contribute to that with a battle between my own mental and physical forms. I’d rather go out in a flurry of self-love and affirmation than raze it to ashes from the inside. I’m making peace and living with my cancer, not fighting it to the death. 

Hard to Relate

Being a young adult with cancer. Having a rare cancer with an extremely low survival rate. Being born with a genetic mutation that only 3% of the population has, with that rare cancer only presenting in 3-7% of that 3% with said mutation. Any one of these factors can make someone feel alienated from those around them; combine them all, it’s easy to feel completely alone. Hey, that’s me!

I know I’m not actually alone. Cancer, regardless of type and stage, tends to drum up the same emotions in all survivors. It’s given me a bizarre amount of comfort over the years to see that every survivor is scared as hell at scan time. We all seem to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. We all struggle with the dark moments, the uncertainty. It’s a ubiquitous experience that has made me feel a sense of community with other survivors, despite the fact that I’ve only met one other person in the world who is my age, dealing with this cancer caused by the BRCA2 mutation.

Having said that, there are still a great deal of things I see many survivors saying or doing that I simply cannot relate to. This has been one of the stranger sides of my journey. I’ll preface this by saying I do not begrudge anyone for their choices, thoughts, and beliefs. Despite the commonalities of the cancer experience, each person’s journey IS different and deserves respect. 

Anyway, here is a list of things that I just can’t understand or relate to:

- Praising God/Jesus for good news instead of doctors or science. I’m completely godless so I can’t imagine doing this. The doctors are here and working hard to save people, I give them the credit.

- Calling chemo “poison.” I feel very strongly that looking at medicine as something toxic (even though it technically can be) is detrimental. Many (if not all) medicines can be “poison” in large amounts. Alcohol is poisonous to our system, yet that gets a pass?

- Hating the tumor/one’s body. I understand the inclination to do this, though cancer is not a foreign invader like a virus. It’s DNA that’s broken and doing what it thinks it’s supposed to be doing. I don’t like the idea of being angry at my body even if it is trying to inadvertently kill me.

- Being baffled by a cancer diagnosis in the first place. Granted, I’m a hypochondriac, though given my family history I always suspected cancer was right around the corner for me. Cancer is fairly common, how does one go through life thinking it would never happen to them?

- Fear of losing hair. I’m always apt to shave my head so the idea of not having hair hasn’t ever been an issue for me. Ironically, I’m on a chemo that doesn’t cause hair loss so I get this weird cancer imposter syndrome and think people won’t believe I’m in treatment.

- Avoiding the word “cancer” as much as possible. Embrace and accept the reality. If you can’t say the word, examine why that is.

If anyone else feels similarly to any of these points, please reach out! I’m always looking to find more common ground with other survivors.

I did it, Barbara. I journaled TWICE this week. Shit yes. (Barbara is my primary therapist.)

 

Flash Forward From the Beginning

I remember being at work, taking a break to check news headlines, when I saw it: “Alex Trebek diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.” A shudder ran through me, followed by a wave of gratitude that my biggest problem was shipping a video game in the Fall. “Pancreatic cancer,” I grimly thought to myself. “I can’t think of many things scarier than that.”

Three months later, just shy of my 33rd birthday, I was given the same diagnosis.

It’s been a little over two years since June 3, 2019: the day I was diagnosed. I’m still alive; though thirty pounds lighter, short a few organs, and going through my third round of treatment. It’s been a hell of a ride so far, so here I present to you: yet another personal-journey-through-cancer blog! Let’s see if I can squeeze out more than one entry. My therapist will be stoked if I do.