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.
