Okay, This Time I Was Scared

I didn’t want to admit that. I wanted to say ‘nervous’ but I’ve tried to be honest about everything in this blog and I’m not going to start equivocating now.

Part of it, I think, was having to delay my appointments. I was scheduled for a CT scan but I had to postpone it as well as the appointment with my oncologist because I contracted whooping cough. Seriously, now––who gets whooping cough at 65?

So then there was the CT scan. I haven’t had one for over three years and I’m sure that added to my jitters.

But then when my oncologist came out, she was smiling and I knew she had good news for me.

The level of cancer has fallen a little more and the scan showed that the areas of cancer in my body have actually shrunk a little. I have stabilised.

I feel good; I feel strong. I feel alive. I feel like partying!

Green bananas for everyone, until mid-February!


The Second Birthday I Wasn’t Supposed To See

I wanted to write something profound and wise about life, the universe, all the fish, and everything else. However, when I woke up this morning, the party in my head was already in full swing.

I’m alive! I’m alive! I’m alive! Everybody conga!

It’s Been A Long While Between Entries

I saw my actual oncologist on 5 June. Dr. McCormack was all smiles again. She’s impressed with how terrifically well I’m doing (unquote). I’m stable and although the side effects from the hormones can be uncomfortable, they aren’t unbearable.

This is not how it usually goes for women my age with recurrent uterine cancer. I feel like I should start carrying around some kind of evidence that recurrent uterine cancer really is inoperable, incurable, and terminal.

And yet it’s been a sad couple of years.

I’m still trying to adjust to life in a world without—among others—Susan Casper, Gardner Dozois, and Earl Cooley III. And Harlan Ellison.

When I was diagnosed, I called Gardner and Susan to tell them about it before I posted the news publicly. Neither of them was critically ill when I got the Diagnosis of Doom. Nor was Earl or Geri or Georgina or most of the other friends I’ve lost since the time I was originally scheduled to shuffle off this mortal coil and now.

The wise and insightful Michael Swanwick told me we don’t get the people we love for free—the price we pay for the privilege of having them in our lives is the pain of losing them. I’d say we also get a world with rougher surfaces and sharper edges.

All of them are worth it.

The art of living is to do justice to the privilege of being alive, no matter how disheartening life can sometimes be.

More About Fighting Or Not Fighting

Found this article on a friend’s Facebook page and I think it’s worth sharing. Because, as I will note again below, one size does not fit all.

I’m ’fighting’ cancer because fighting is what I do, and what I’ve always done. I’m good at it. I haven’t won every fight but I don’t consider ‘losing’ shameful or something bad.

I fight knowing that there is no guaranteed win. But not fighting—not trying—is a guaranteed loss.

When I ‘fight’ cancer, I fight to remain who I am rather than have my identity subsumed by cancer. I have cancer; I am a cancer patient; I have terminal cancer; but that’s not all that I am.

As I have said, I have cancer but cancer doesn’t have me.

I know that I can’t win this—i.e., beat cancer—just because I beat my chest and bellow “I‘m not dead yet!” every morning. A positive attitude does not contravene the laws of nature.

But a positive attitude will make your life worth living, whether you have a little time left or a lot.

Every resident of Cancerland has to handle theIr situation in the way that suits them best. I chose the fighting metaphor. I know I’m going down but by God, I’m going down swinging.

Other people may not like the fighting metaphor. That’s fine—one size does not fit all. I know a guy who considers cancer his dancing partner. I heard another person didn’t like the fighting metaphor because he didn’t want to think of his body as a battlefield.

All of these viewpoints are valid.

Nobody dies of cancer because they didn’t fight hard enough. They die of cancer because it’s a motherfcker of a disease science hasn’t cured yet.

But before we die, we are still who we have always been. We are living with cancer. And however a person wants to view this, they aren’t doing it wrong.

As I said, I chose fighting because all my life, I’ve fought for everything I wanted. It doesn’t mean I think everyone should use that metaphor, and it doesn’t mean I disapprove of those who don’t.

Quite honestly, I’d like to see more articles that encourage people to see themselves as still alive, still vital, and still as much a part of life as they have ever been, even if they are physically impaired in some way. I’d like to see more articles telling people they can live with cancer, regardless of how long that may be.

And I wish the picture at the start of this article was of a cancer patient sitting up, or walking outside, or reading a book, or chatting with friends, or doing anything other than lying alone in bed looking sad, as if they were waiting to die.

To Fight or Not To Fight? Or, Your Life, Your Rules

So a discussion about this came up in my Twitter feed recently. Some of my fellow-travellers in Cancerland don’t like the fighting metaphor. Fair enough. There’s nothing wrong with that––we all deal with our various things differently and a disease is no exception. My mother developed breast cancer at 90. She eventually had surgery but prior to that, her doctor treated it with hormones, which worked for a while. My mother referred to her tumour as ‘Madame’, talking about it––and sometimes to it––as if it were a fussy roommate. We learned from her doctor that it isn’t unusual for patients to name a tumour, or just the disease itself, and to treat it like a companion.

There’s nothing wrong with that. Whatever gets you through the night, the day, the following night, the day after, and so on and so forth. Your life, your rules. One size does not fit all.

So I’m a little put out by Macmillan Cancer Support telling people they shouldn’t think in terms of fighting. Or maybe what I take issue with is their narrow interpretation of ‘fight.’ There are all kinds of ways to fight, and many have nothing to do with combat or battlefields.

I get up every morning and bitch-slap Cancer right in the face. But a slap in the face doesn’t have to be literal. Getting excluded from my all-day dance parties is a slap in the face to Cancer. When I was having chemo, I pole-danced with my IV tree and put a funny hat on my medication infuser. That, to me, is fighting…and winning, at least for a time.

The thing is, I’ve been fighting all my life. I had to fight people’s expectations of what a kid from the bad part of town could become. I had to fight for my education. And even when I was a kid, I had to fight to stay alive. The heart defect I had wasn’t discovered until I was five––my mother’s sister Madeline had died of the same ailment. The doctor told my mother I should have been frail, sickly, and died early of a bad cold. I wasn’t, and I didn’t.

Fighting is what I know how to do. I fight and I go on, and I see nothing shameful about defeat. It doesn’t matter how strong you are or how lucky, no hot streak can last forever; the house always wins in the end. When losing is inevitable, there’s no shame in it.

Macmillan, honey, it’s not the fighting metaphor that makes patients feel guilty about admitting fear and preventing them from planning properly for their death––it’s the fact that they have frickin’ terminal cancer––literally, not metaphorically!

Everyone feels guilty about admitting they’re afraid of anything, regardless of what it is––it’s how we are. Nobody wants to be a fraidy-cat, even if they’re afraid of being terminal, which is about as terrifying as it gets. And planning for your own death–– bitch, please. ‘Hey, here’s a fun thing to do––let’s spend the weekend looking at urn catalogs and deciding on music for my service! Then we can have a will-making party!’ said nobody ever, not even healthy people.

No metaphor of any kind is going to make terminal cancer patients feel better, or braver, or more positive about what’s going to happen to them.

What will help a terminal cancer patient––or any other cancer patient––is the support of friends and family in whatever form the person needs. Macmillan Cancer Support is brilliant at that––you can call them up for any reason, even if you just need to talk. If you have money problems, they can work with you to find some way to manage. They have wigs and scarves and hats. There are support groups you can join, in person or online, or both.

Oh, what the hell, I already said it several paragraphs ago: your life, your rules. You don’t want to fight, do it your way. If it works for you, you’re not doing it wrong.

One last pro-tip: no one is positive about having terminal cancer all the time, not even me. But then, I’m not positive about anything all the time.

Who is?

Springtime Is Also My Third Chemoversary

Sometime later this month, it will be three years since the end of chemo and, roughly, 1.25 years of borrowed time. Or maybe that’s reclaimed time.

And no, it never gets old. I thought maybe by now, I’d feel bored sometimes, or restless, or dissatisfied. But every day is still a party. It isn’t always the best party ever; sometimes we run out of the really good hors d’oeuvres. Sometimes we run out of ice for the drinks, or clean glasses, or anything other than tap water. But that’s how you know you’re alive—things get messy, cold things get warm, hot things get cold, and you run out of everything except the Marmite-flavoured potato chips.

If you’re lucky, though, you’ve got at least one friend who likes Marmite-flavoured chips and is willing to keep you company until the supply train comes in.

While I never really believed I was going to shuffle off this mortal coil by December 2016, I still can’t help marvelling that I’m well into my second year past the old deadline. Sometimes, I want to run outside, holler, beat my chest, and yell, NO, NOT TODAY, EITHER, NYAH, NYAH, NYAH!

My neighbours probably don’t know how thrilled they should be that instead, I’ve chosen simply to tweet a jeer at Mortality daily. And write the occasional blog post.

I Have Cancer But Cancer Doesn’t Have Me

The level of cancer in my body has fallen again. The hormones I’m taking are still killing off cancer cells.

Today I saw a new members of my oncologist’s team. It was all I could do not to start dancing around her office. Although who knows—she might have danced with me. She looked amazed when she checked the results of my blood test.

On our way out, Chris and I ran into a few fellow-travellers who said they liked my lucky short—i.e., the one that says, I’m Making Cancer My Bitch. I love my lucky shirt.

I’m sorry, I’m not very erudite at the moment. I’m busy rubbing moisturiser on my face and hands, drinking liquids, and celebrating the fact that when life gives you lemons, sometimes it also throws in a few green bananas.

Green bananas for everybody! (I’m not buying; sorry. But I would if I could.)