One of the interesting things about the cancer is figuring out the “need to tell.” Who do I need to tell? Who do I want to tell? Knowing my hair was about to fall out made me feel the need to tell more people, I think, since I didn’t want them to suddenly see me bald and think i was “keeping something” from them. I told a friend I ran into at the food co-op, though I might not have seen her again for weeks or months. But cancer wasn’t a secret. And I didn’t want her to be shocked down the line. And of course, finding out, she was grateful to know, and offered to bring food!
For a couple weeks I kept telling, and I kept second-guessing if that was the right thing to do. The oddest was at work. I work at a retreat house and I know a lot of the groups who rent our space pretty well. I mean, I set things up for them and see them when they arrive. We mostly communicate online, but they come regularly, sometimes multiple times each year. So I felt I needed to tell Katie, although my hair had not yet fallen out, and she wouldn’t be back for months, and everything had gone well. I was worried that there might be gaps down the line– communication not as quick, a student worker contacting her instead of me. In any event, when she arrived on a cold day in early March, I told her: “I have cancer.” She hugged me.
Her mother had breast cancer, and we talked about it. I felt a little awkward, like I’d burdened her with this news, but she was fine. She said she was glad to know and the group would include me in prayers that weekend.
And then at some point, I didn’t need to tell. People know, or they find out when they see me. They react or they don’t react. They ask questions or they don’t ask questions. It’s all perfectly fine with me. And some days, like this past Thursday, I can put on my wig and do a poetry reading and two class visits and we don’t have to talk about cancer at all!
There are a lot of this kind of “blows” that we incorporate into our identity– divorce, illness, abuse, widowhood– loss and wounds of various kinds. For a while they seem to define us utterly– we have to turn that face to the world. We have to claim it and muddle around until we figure out what it means. And then it is just one of the things we are: survivor. It’s part of that resilience conversation, but also more. It’s character, and complexity, and fulness of life experience that gives us other gifts: solidarity, compassion, and maybe most of all the ability to receive the care and compassion of others.
I don’t have cancer (knock on wood and bless the Universe), but I do have a disease that has changed my life, and my outlook on it. I think that’s also part of the telling–I’m different than I used to be, I see value where I previously let it pass by; in my telling you I’m sharing that with you and including you in that value. I had a close friend who didn’t want me to tell anyone, didn’t want me to use a cane (which I sometimes need) when I was around anyone else. I’m not sure if she thought I should be embarrassed (which I’m not–why should I be?) or whether she thought I was seeking attention. Hmm. Maybe I am. This is big. It has changed my life. It’s not all of my life, but it’s definitely a part of it, and always will be. I’m better now, in all definitions, and I’d like to share that, celebrate it.
So, Susan, I say share. It’s letting people in. That’s beautiful, and healthy, all on its own.
I’m all for telling! And trust me, I’m not “not telling”— I mean, BLOG! There’s just a difference from it defining me in the early days and now, when it feels more integrated– like your MS– and able to tell it differently and also with more empowerment, too. But so far “telling” has never been a bad thing. I sent an e-mail to a bunch of people I work with at the college who are really just kind of “vendors.” And I learned something about one of them– who followed me into the post office to see how I was doing and to share his own story. Always good.
🙂 Meant the “tell!” comment as jumping on your bandwagon, supporting what you’ve written and what you’ve done.
Susan, as you probably know, I can relate to what you have been through. I was diagnosed with colorectal cancer in December 1988 and had major surgery in January 1989. Chemo and radiation were in the plans but because of low white blood count (sound familiar), I had only two series of chemo. I didn’t “hide” my illness; I couldn’t because I was supposed to be working and wasn’t so everyone at the Ecumenical Institute knew. Fr. Daniel Durken was my biggest support for the next several years as I went through radiation and then several other surgeries not related to the cancer. Five years later, after experiencing what I called “no quality of life,” I had a colostomy and I once again began to enjoy life. Now, at 83 I have some health issues but I contribute them to the aging process and I continue to thank God for all the variou s support groups I have had over the past thirty years. I’m so impressed with all you continue to do. Keep up the good work. You are in my prayers.
We are both lucky for our jobs on Fruit Farm Road during this time. What supportive communities! You are an inspiring survivor, Sister Dolores!
I’m just defensive! Thank you!