Cancer is a Sneak

Things you probably didn’t know

I’m the last person I expected to have cancer. After all, I was invincible, and cancer and other bad things only happened to other people.

Duh.

So when the diagnosis of a rare blood cancer was made, I went through the usual denial. I felt fine, I told the hematologist. “I think I’d know if I had cancer. I know my body pretty well.”

Much to his credit, he did not laugh in my face. He explained they had found the cancer during a routine pathological examination of tissue removed during a surgery to replace a cervical disc. The cancer was “indolent,” which meant it wasn’t active now but soon would be — no one could say when.

It took about six years, long enough to convince myself I didn’t have cancer at all. When the cancer became active and I ended up in the cancer center of the university hospital, I finally accepted my doctor had been telling me the truth.

In no particular order, here were things that surprised me.

Cancer is not the automatic killer people of my generation grew up believing. At one time any cancer diagnosis automatically meant death, usually after a horrible long period of chemotherapy or radiation.

Thanks to decades of tireless research some cancers can even be eliminated now. Other cancers can be treated and sent into remission for years. Cancer is still not a walk in the park, but treatments are far more humane; chemotherapy chemicals can be adjusted now to kill the cancer cells without killing the patient.

You probably won’t know what cancer feels like. I thought I had pulled a muscle that I couldn’t seem to get back to normal, despite physical therapy and lots of ibuprofen, and visits to the clinic. It took a fall and an emergency trip to the hospital before it was discovered the indolent cancer had awakened.

It hurts when your hair begins to fall out from chemotherapy. It’s almost as if the follicles refuse to give up without a fight. Some people go ahead and shave their heads at the first sign of loss, but I couldn’t face that. It took less than a week for all of my hair to fall out.

Everyone assumed I’d get a wig, but I refused. I had cancer and chemotherapy had caused all my hair to fall out — why hide it? Instead, I wore a scarf until a friend knitted a blue hat for me, which I then wore most all the time. That it was created by a dear friend always gave me good feelings.

You’ll be amazed at how you look with no hair. One afternoon I looked in the mirror without my hat and realized I looked like my paternal grandfather, who I had only seen in an old picture. He was not an ugly man, but I made a very ugly bald-headed woman. It was also obvious that I carried generations of Floyd DNA if there had ever been any doubt.

Your real friends will show up for you, without excuses or cloying displays of pity or hand-wringing helplessness. My friends immediately took care of my parrots, brought me the mail and bags of M&Ms with peanuts, and shared gossip and jokes. To celebrate my last session of inpatient chemotherapy, one of my friends donned a t-rex costume and strode through the hospital halls followed by a long enough stream of nurses and aides clicking their cell phone cameras to put all the LA paparazzi to shame.

More of your friends have had cancer than you know. During my first inpatient stay, I wrote just a few of my closest friends scattered around the country. I asked them not to tell anyone because I didn’t feel up to dealing with an onslaught of well-meaning people who would want exhaustive explanations and details.

To my surprise, nearly all of my friends confessed that they too had had cancer. They had told no one except their spouses, and they asked that I not reveal it to others. Were we ashamed to have cancer? In most cases, it was for professional reasons — as if surviving a deadly disease was a mark of weakness. (I think someone should do a study of this.)

Your modesty is one of the first things to go. Between hospital gowns, diagnostic machines, IVs, examinations, drip bags, nausea, needle sticks, and call buttons for the nurse any attempt to hide or shield any body part is quickly dismissed. You can take comfort in knowing that the clinical staff has seen far worse bodies than yours. Really.

You’ll worry about the expense, knowing you’re being charged for each test, procedure, pill, solution, meal, and click of machinery. But it doesn’t take long to put that in perspective. I decided early on that if I couldn’t pay the deductibles and co-pays and drug bills I’d just declare bankruptcy and be done with it. I would not allow the lack of money to threaten my life.

You really will fight a battle against cancer. I have always disliked that cliché because I thought patients were just passive vessels for the deadly chemicals and radiation that did the actual work. I was wrong. Every day and night I worked to endure the treatments, tried to hold my temper at being awoken every four to six hours for blood draws. During the few hours I was left alone in the hospital bed I fought to resist the negative thoughts that threatened to overtake me. Every night and day I fought to remember I was getting better, that I was surviving against an opponent that wanted me dead.

I hope you never fall victim to the sneak of cancer, but if you do know that there are tens of thousands of people who’ve been where you are and have survived, that there are thousands of brilliant medical professionals who devote their lives to ferreting out cancer’s secrets.

Don’t be stupid like Steve Jobs and rely only on alternative medicine to fix you. Some alternative treatments may help alongside your regular treatments but always communicate honestly with your doctor. She wants you to survive, too. Believe me, she knows way more than that guy down at the health food shop.

Remember that you are not alone. Be proud that you have joined the ranks of survivors.

I’ll see you there.

More of Marguerite’s stories

Poems by Marguerite

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