People always ask about how cancer changed me. Often, they expect me to have some sort of great insight into the meaning of life. I resent that. When I read Alice Trillin's comment about maintaining one’s own identity (see post below) it resonated. Cancer made me more me. In a good way. In a “that which does not kill me” kind of way. Literally.
When people told, or tell me, I am a hero, I don’t get it. There’s nothing heroic about surviving. You’re given a choice. Do this and live, don’t do this and die. Um, life please. If anything, the heroism is in saying enough is enough. I’m lucky. I got through it in one try. I haven’t had a recurrence. I never had to face the alternative. No one ever told me, “it’s not working.” Just the same, I think, when people tell me I’m their hero they are referring to the way in which I faced it. I got on with business. To me, there was no other way. A do or do not situation.
My uncle, when he found out I’d been successfully treated (never say cured, one is not cured of cancer), told me I’d “done it.” I stared down death and won. He said I had nothing to fear for the rest of my life. He’s overly dramatic and terrified of death, but I think I understand what he meant by that. I’ve proven my mettle. That’s what I take with me. I know I can face challenges and, when given the proper tools, overcome them. I’ve done it over and over again. I’ll continue to do it. And so I am not “changed.” There is no grand realization that causes me to renounce this material world. If anything, I am emboldened to go forth and conquer. Hell, I’ve done it once, might as well do it again.
Must be January— I promise lighter fair will return with the sun. I’m a bit like Persephone these days…
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