(June 1007) It takes a slightly skewed view of the world, but if you’re of a mind to, you can take advantage of cancer now and then.
Take, for instance, the golf course. One Saturday with my regular foursome we were playing our regular game. I will admit I seldom win, so golf is somewhat more expensive for me than for the other three. But, the one who wins the most money also buys the drinks, so it starts to even out if you drink enough.
I have been coming up on the short end of that deal too lately. One of the warnings on my chemotherapy drugs advised against drinking alcohol during treatment. I asked if that meant during the week of the chemotherapy, during the weeks around treatment, the whole six months of treatment, or if it meant what I wanted it to mean – no alcohol during treatment at the clinic. But they said it meant what I figured it meant – during treatment. For someone who had a couple of double martinis every night, that was just another challenging setback of this disease.
Anyway, about golf. We were on the twelfth hole, and five skins had piled up, so there was a little extra interest in every shot. One of the guys—who’s not known for fast play in the first place—was taking a particularly long time lining up his putt. He walked around it on all sides, crouching, squinting, plumb-bobbing from every angle. The rest of us stood by watching as amusement turned to frustration. Finally, he addressed the ball and then moved away, apparently hearing a leaf fall somewhere in another galaxy.
I’d had enough. “Look,” I said, “maybe you have all the time in the world, but I have cancer. There are a few other things I’d like to do with the time I have left.” He missed the putt. I bought the drinks.
Twisted or not, a sense of humor is important now. We ran into a friend the other day who said cheerily “you’re looking good.” I instinctively said “I’ve always been good looking.”
“But, really,” he stammered “how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Haven’t been sick a day. I never get sick. Terminal, not sick.”
You do have to be a little careful who you say those sorts of things to. I said something like that to someone one day and her lower lip started to quiver. And a couple people have gotten angry. They’re trying to be nice and I’m making fun of them. But, hey, I’m the one who has to cope with leukemia. F*#k them if they can’t take a joke.
I’m not afraid to say I have cancer. It’s an ugly word that stops people in their tracks. And I’m not saying I took the news with a nod and a wink. But now that it’s here, I admit it. I use the word.
Even my doctor is inclined to say “CLL” instead of leukemia and I’ve never heard him say cancer. But I think you have to face reality. Whether I want to or not, I wake up every morning and at some point—usually when I’m taking my pills—I look at myself and think, “I have cancer.”
So face facts. I think I’ve always been like that. To me, people don’t “pass away,” and they aren’t “gone.” They die. They’re dead. I didn’t lose my brother, or my parents. I lost my earring. My family died.
You may disagree, but I think it’s helpful to see the world that way. Some may say it’s pessimistic, but I think it’s realism. It’s not easy. As my father used to say, the trouble is that you’re such a long time dead. So, it’s hard to know they are dead, not “lost.” After all, even though it’s not likely, there’s a chance that someday, somewhere, I may find my earring.
I’m not really expecting to die, but my particular brand of leukemia is incurable. So I have to own it. Don’t give in to it, but don’t ignore it either. As they say I have cancer, cancer doesn’t have me.
I’m optimistic about cancer. I’m going to beat it. When my six cycles of chemotherapy are over, all indications are I’ll be in remission. And I won’t have to think about it again for a long time. I probably will, but I won’t have to.
The trouble is remission seems to me to be a little like gardening. You work like crazy to get all the dandelions out of the yard, but one day you walk outside and the dandelions are back. So I’ll think about it. It’s part of me now.
In the meantime, I’m ordering the drinks.
