January 20, 2022
I recently discovered a wicked Instagram account called thecancerpatient [sic]. It describes itself as satirical; I say wicked not only because of the language– so raw– but because of the way it presents patient perspectives of cancer experiences. I don’t always relate or even agree, but I often howl with laughter. Dark jokes are a survival strategy.
The folks who keep the #cancerpatient Instagram account also have a podcast. I recently checked it out and was surprised to find three episodes about the complex topic, survivorship. What happens to the patient when the original crisis is over? When treatment comes to a close?
Survivor
One who remains alive and continues to function during and after overcoming a serious hardship or life-threatening disease. In cancer, a person is considered to be a survivor from the time of diagnosis until the end of life. (National Cancer Institute)
I entered the phase in cancer called “Active surveillance” 4 months ago, on September 17, 2021. That was the day I drove out of the cancer center in a state of quiet fear. My days had been taken up with cancercancercancer and all of a sudden, I had no treatment schedule. Even more scary, I was no longer cocooned in the compassionate world where everyone understood how cancer affected a patient and her life.
While I may have finished treatment, I would deal with the aftermath, i.e., pneumonitis and a pulmonary embolism, until January 1, about two weeks prior to this post. Compared to serious pneumonitis, radiation and chemo were a walk in the park. Surviving had its physical and emotional repercussions, but it was better than the alternative.
Recently on #cancerpatient, a simple post, “Here’s some cancer awareness for ya” yielded more than 300 comments. Here are two:
I don’t have PTSD, but I relate to trying to always be prepared for something that might be ready to “announce itself.” And, the messiness of “normal life” and not knowing what or how rings true for me too. I was grateful to read other people putting into words what I was trying to express, even to myself.
*** *** *** ***
In the quiet house, I sat by the fire, catching up on my Goodreads account. Goodreads is a site where you can record books you’ve read and keep a list of what you want to read. It can be social or not; I’m “friends” there with a few colleagues I’ve known for years.
I’ve scrolled through Goodreads a zillion times. That night, I did nothing unusual. I scrolled down, noticed who was reading education books, who was reading mysteries or fiction. There they were, all still living their lives, going about the days as they were accustomed to. Suddenly, I felt an almost physical sensation of ripping, my life tearing away from theirs’. It was as if they were living on a massive glacier and I was on a chunk of ice that had sheered off and was drifting away.
Well, I went into a menty B, as they say on #cancerpatient. (That’s mental breakdown for those of you watching at home.) It wasn’t really– it was more like deep sobs, the ultimate of ugly crying. Except I had to keep it low key so as not to wake anyone. Still, I got a lot of tears out. Then I figured I should go to bed. I mean, what else was there to do?
I felt shaken even when I woke up the next day. At my usual appointment with Cancershrink, I recounted the experience. Of course, I wept. It was loneliness, it was grief, it was a deeper level of awareness and acceptance of what the future might– or might not– hold. The image of an iceberg seemed to drift in the room.
But then I stopped short. I was envisioning my little iceberg, me on my own, drifting away. But I could see something else, something beside me. I swear to you, I envisioned… a beach umbrella. In a moment of existential truth, complete with grief and sobbing, I was drifting alone on an iceberg with a beach umbrella?
Let me tell you, there is no image more absurd. Which is fitting, given that having lung cancer has been absurd from the beginning. So what did I do? I burst into laughter. Deep, roaring belly laughs. There I sat, wiping tears from my cheeks and laughing so hard it hurt. Luckily Cancershrink also thought it was very funny, otherwise I might have been carted away. (Just in case, there’s somebody out there who can bake a cake with a hacksaw inside, right?)
And that is how my survivorship is rolling. There’s an event, usually a physical one, and once I’m through it, I’m overcome by it. Each time, I’m carved a little deeper. And somehow, each time, I find something so absurd, so funny, how can I keep from cracking up? Then, usually giggling at the absurdity, I take the next step forward.
Because what else is there to do?
Thanks for reading. I hope you glimpse a beach umbrella today. Or even something to make you smile.
