Sunday, October 16, 2011

I cried because I had no shoes, then I met a man who had no feet. . .

and then I laughed really hard. (Last part courtesy of "Strangers with Candy.")

In all seriousness, the original quote about suffering and perception being relative is something I've been grappling with recently. Since I started this blog and began chronicling the ups and downs of trying to beat cancer, I have received many messages from people sharing that my diagnosis has forced them to take a good look at their own struggles and put their troubles into perspective. In fact, most of my life, I feel that I've been the person that makes other people feel better about their own lives. Trouble with your relationship? "Well, at least you're not Melissa." Issues with your health? "Just thank God you don't have anything as bad as Melissa." Family issues? You get the picture. In one of my English classes a couple of weeks ago, I was writing an assignment on the board and different students began a debate over which one was more tired. "I'm more tired because I had to get up early." "No, I'm the most tired because I have P.E. and soccer practice today." This went on for a few minutes, and, finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I turned to face them and said with a grin, "I'm tired, and I have cancer. I win. Debate finished. Let's move on." Most kids just stared at me. A few returned my sleepy smile. The who's got it worse game is one I've nearly always won. So much so, that friends have shown me off to others as a freak example of what can go wrong in life. You think your story's bad? You haven't heard about Melissa. This voyeuristic attention gives me both a bizarre sense of pride and, also simultaneously, makes me resentful. It's not always fun being a poster child for the "it could be worse" campaign.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a support group meeting for young people with cancer. There were five other young (under forty) cancer patients and survivors in various stages of different cancers and treatment. I sought out this particular group because I've been surrounded by the elderly in every single doctor's office waiting room (and, trust me, I've been in a lot of waiting rooms). It is disheartening and frustrating to walk into a doctor's office and have each and every graying head turn to stare at you as if you've just stepped off a spaceship. When they realize that I am the one going through treatment and I'm not there with a grandparent, they gawk unabashedly. Even my surgeon's nurse was acutely aware of this, she warned me not to attend any regular breast cancer support groups because I'd be surrounded by older women talking about their grandchildren. And, while dealing with the possibility that I may end up infertile because of my treatments, the prospect of hearing patients talk about their grandchildren makes me want to jump out the nearest window.

So, I joined the young people's group, hoping to find others with whom to commiserate. Everyone there was kind, reflective, and accepting; each one was also an all-star player of the "it could be worse" game. There was a man whose head was half-shaved and bore a giant curling incision from the brain surgery that he'd had two weeks before. He is currently dealing with his second recurrence of a brain tumor that cannot be fully excised from his brain. So, he waits, trying each new trial that comes along and crossing his fingers that something will shrink it. Another man, a single father of a three-year-old, has a rare blood cancer that he's been treating with crippling chemotherapy. Oh, and did I mention he's unemployed? Sitting next to me was a woman, my age, who has had three different kinds of cancer in her life, two of them resulting from the chemo and radiation she received for the first cancer. And, the previous week, she was hit by a car while riding her bike home from work. Take a couple seconds to digest that life story. Yet another woman suffers from chronic pain, a side effect of her radiation treatment four years ago.

After hearing each of their stories, I felt silly recounting the details of my little tumor. Yes, I have stage II breast cancer, which was taken out through a partial mastectomy. And, yes, I will have to be treated through radiation therapy then five years, yes, five crappy years, of hormone therapy. However, I left the group that night feeling blessed as well as depressed. Yes, I have cancer, but it won't kill me. And no, I may not be able to have children, but at least I have a job and a place to live. Their stories also made me fearful of what is yet to come. Will I have chronic pain from my radiation treatment? Will I get a recurrence, too? Is it possible that my cancer treatments will kill the cancer now but wind up giving me a different cancer years from now?

Many people fall back on cliches to explain the obstacles that face us every day, but I just can't stomach another "everything happens for a reason" or "things will turn out okay." You know what? It may not be okay. And what could possibly be the reason that one sweet young woman had to fight through three different types of cancer before she turned thirty? Yet through all of my struggles, one cliche does still apply - the old, I-had-no-shoes adage. That group reminded me that though I may have no shoes right now, I've still got my feet. And, though I may have a life that inspires others to feel better about their own lives, that's not necessarily a bad thing. I think I can live with being an inspiration.

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