May 3, 2023
The last few days, I have had some conversations with friends and colleagues that have left me thinking a lot about other people within my orbit. More specifically, about other people’s response to my diagnosis and my treatments. I have been reflecting on how, in the first few months knowing I was living with cancer, that I spent a lot of energy trying to make it more comfortable for everyone else.
The first few times I told people that I had cancer, I kind of just awkwardly blurted it out, very matter of fact and to the point. I would watch as different emotions would flicker across the faces of my friends and family: fear, sadness, and a lot nervous squirming as they would quickly rationalize their own mortality with mine. I was a vibrant, healthy woman with everything going for me… so if I could have cancer what is not to say that it couldn’t happen to them too.
I also remember, early in the diagnosis, as David and I were navigating very uncharted territory, he told me that I needed to make it easier for other people to hear that I had cancer. That I needed to lead with a reassuring, “This is curable,” clause; like I should detail it as if this was nothing more than a minor cavity needing to be filled at the dentist. He wanted to keep a list of people we told so that we could update everyone with developments. I tried that delivery system and it only ended up leaving people in a position where they couldn’t see the complete picture and me exhausted with the weight of worrying about everyone else. Don’t get me wrong, I am not upset at my well-intentioned husband. We had no idea what we were doing. But in hindsight, that was a terrible idea. My people didn’t truly understand the graveness of my diagnosis and that, even though curable, it was still very life-threatening and a big fucking deal. Which made me a bit resentful when people did not take into account that I was battling cancer or when they looked shocked when they hadn’t seen me in a while and I was very skinny (I lost 25 pounds) or my hair was all chopped off or the circles under my eyes resembled craters on the moon.
A trusted therapist I saw during the pandemic once told me that all I can control is my truth, my feelings, my actions and my words. How all of that lands with other people is on them and is none of my concern. It took 41 years and a cancer diagnosis to really understand and put into practice that it does not matter what people think of me. It is none of my business what others think of me. I can only do my best and do it authentically. Want to see who your people truly are? Get diagnosed with cancer and speak your truth, live it authentically and don’t hold back. Your people stick around and they check in on you without you having to keep a list of people to update.
That’s not to say that It isn’t hard to watch people you thought had your back walk away. To know that you might be being judged, or talked about, or pitied. But what is amazing is to watch people you may have kept at the peripheral of your life lean in. I have reprioritized relationships, I know where to put my energy and how much of it and in which way I should give it.
Having rectal cancer is my truth. At no point should I have modified the narrative to make it easier on other people. It was a mistake and did more harm then good. I wonder if that also left people feeling like they couldn’t come to me to ask questions, instead they speculated or stuck to their own narratives and beliefs about cancer. At the end of the day, however, how folks choose to respond is their shit. It’s not on me to help them deal with their emotions or make my diagnosis easier for them. I am proud of my truth, even if it is cancer, or if it contains failure, mistakes, or dark spots. All of it is helping me evolve into the being I am supposed to be so that I can fulfill my purpose for this life.
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