Cancer is a scary word, especially when preceded by “I have.” If I didn't know it before, I certainly did by the time I'd let the people closest to me know I was suffering from multiple myeloma, a rare bone marrow cancer.
Cancer, it appears, is one of those
words that is so big, so scary, that it almost has to be whispered to be heard.
“Jim? Yeah he has cancer.”
To me, personally, there are worse things to be
sick from - Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's disease)
comes immediately to mind.. But it's cancer I have and cancer that is
scaring my friends and family.
I don't want people I care about to be
scared around this; heck, I don't want people I don't know yet who
may stumble onto this blog to be scared. I realized quickly that
having cancer and someone you care about having cancer are two
totally different scenarios. When I see people in actual, physical
pain trying to find the right thing to say to me, I'm not sure I
didn't get the better part of this deal.
See, the thing I know is this: at least
to me, there is no right thing to say, no wrong thing. I just want
people to be able to say what they feel. Believe me, you expressing
your fear isn't going to make me feel any worse, and maybe it could
help you; stranger things have happened.
Even if the only thought in your head
is “I'm glad it's you and not me that's going through this,” you
should go ahead and say it because I would be thinking the same thing
in your position. Oh yeah, that should be a guilt-free thought, by
the way.
If, on the other hand, you wish you had it instead of me... Well... that's the kind of thinking that keeps psychiatrists busy enough that they can't accept walk-ins.
Sometimes I feel like a character in
Stephen King's “Under the Dome.” This “thing,” in my case the
multiple myeloma, dropped out of nowhere and cut me off the world in
a flash. Everyone is still there. I can see you through the dome's
clear walls, as you can see me. . But we aren't really able to
communicate. No sound will pass into or out of the dome.
Sure, if we assume we can have poster board
and markers, we can make signs for each other and hold them up to the
dome wall. But not every exchange of words results in communication.
If I ask you what Moby Dick is about and you only have enough room on
your sign to answer, “Something about a whale,” words have most
assuredly been exchanged, but I'm not sure much communication took
place.
Cancer. Here's how ignorant I was on
the subject before I got it: I thought you got sick, worked with your
doctors, loved your family and you either got better or you didn't.
Silly boy. I'm sure it's possible to go through it that way, and good
for anyone who can. Since I've been known to complicate a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich, though, it's not for me. I spent way too many years
avoiding even the hint of the suggestion of the possibility of a
feeling and I won't do that anymore.
So, I'm going to continue to find ways to talk to those who care without making them feel worse, and to hear what they honestly have to tell me and use it to help me heal.
The word cancer doesn't hold much fear
for me at this early stage of my journey. I live with it, think about it, dance around it 24/7.
I don't expect that to remain the case as more is revealed and
the extent of my fight is better understood; “Hello darkness my old
friend,” in other words. For now though, it just means I have to be careful when
talking to others about it. As my friends start to come to grips with
it, they don't need me to be seemingly dismissing their fears simply
because my familiarity has led to a certain amount of my fear being
replaced with contempt for the disease.
Oh, by the way, if there's an easy way
to tell someone you have cancer, I didn't find it.
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