My friends and loved ones know that I am typically not one to mince words. Ever. I have always valued honesty, in the same way that I may have naively assumed that everyone does. It took me many years…scratch that, decades…to realize that not everyone places the same value on full transparency. But even from a young age, I have always been the type to crave the full, at times “brutal” truth. I would much rather (as in, orders of magnitude “rather,”) know exactly what I am dealing with, in all its full glory, or lack thereof. This, no doubt, stems at least partly from my experience of how I learned that I had cancer when I was initially diagnosed at eleven. However, in the interest of brevity, I will have to save that tale for another blog entry.
Back to the present day. As I mentioned, my friends/loved ones usually know what I am thinking and feeling–for better or worse. If I care about you, appreciate you, love you, value you, am upset, confused, hurt…you will know it. And even if I don’t express my gratitude or love verbally as often as I should, I will show you. Am I a perfect friend/loved one? Fuck no. Not even close. But if you are close to me, you will not question my feelings for you.
Now notice I say “close” friend/loved ones. That is very much intentional. There is no value to giving unsolicited advice or feedback to strangers, apart from an appropriate, welcomed compliment or sharing of useful info, as it pertains to their immediate safety or well-being. Telling some stranger on the street, “I think your shoes are ugly,” while perhaps truthful, is, at best, not useful. Telling a stranger “your fly is down, and also your parking brake must not be engaged, because your car is careening down the street toward traffic,” is…I would argue…beneficial information.
Similarly, if I feel passionately about a topic, you will probably know that as well. I have survived too many things in my life to hold back, hide, or otherwise stay silent on things that matter. Now do I offend people with my opinions and stances on things? Hell yes! All. The. Time. Will it be worth it in the final analysis? I sure as hell hope so.
Now while doing my best to stand authentically in a place of honesty and transparency, I recently got an unexpected taste of my own medicine–in both literal and figurative ways. And being prone to introspection, which sounds sexier and less judgy than “overthinking,” it gave me pause. I needed that pause to re-evaluate if there is something truly “brutal” in the concept of brutal honesty.
The taste of my own medicine came in three doses, doled out over about six weeks. These seemingly bitter pills came as the following:
- “How does it feel to be special?” Now under different circumstances, this might sound flattering. However it is significantly less flattering when it comes from your oncologist, in reference to your unusual medical history, and just before discussing an MRI abnormality.
- “This is a lot to digest.” This one was from another specialist in reference to a myriad of findings on a PET/CT scan.
- “That was the hardest (procedure) I have ever performed.” This was from another specialist after being unable to complete a medical procedure due to complications.
Now I have to admit there was a small part of me that initially recoiled at those three statements, especially the first and the last. At the moment in which I received the second, I was so tired, both physically and emotionally, that my vibe was very much in sync with the fact that everything was “a lot to digest.” But also it was these variable levels of fatigue that necessitated I process my annoyance, before I could be open to gratitude for the honesty.
And that is really where the duality of a 32 year cancer journey plays out…in those little moments couched within the larger moments. Those simple words, phrases, or actions taken in the context of the larger picture. The view from 30,000 feet is beautiful, spectacular. It’s a story of survival, and continued survival at that. The gratitude I feel and recognition of how fucking lucky I am, is never far from my mind for long. But on the ground, and sometimes in the moment, it is hard… and tiring… and I am so very over it. Completely. Some days, probably like many of you, I am beyond ready to hang up my cape and relinquish my position as one of the poster children for enduring strength. If you need me, I’ll be at the beach, napping. If only, right?
And you know what? That is actually OK. After 13 surgeries, 18 biopsies, 12 procedures, 28 MRIs, 6 CT scans, and a PET scan, it is OK to be tired. Hell, I didn’t even get a partridge and a pear tree in that mix! So, it is perfectly fine to want a break from all of it. Furthermore, is OK to not be effusively oozing with glittering gratitude at all moments. It simply is OK. And that is the funny thing about cancer. Even when it is gone…sometimes long after it is gone…you realize that you can never fully walk away from it. So you have to learn to dance somewhere between the 30,000 feet moments of unadulterated appreciation and the “on the ground” reality checks, of which there may be many.
But the very reason I initially felt annoyed, that experience I will call “survivor fatigue,” is also what ultimately made me appreciate that honesty. The seemingly “brutal” honesty was not actually brutal at all. In fact, it was oddly reassuring. Those words validated all the things I was feeling. That honesty acknowledged the complex nature of my cancer journey. It amplified the experience of all the things my body has endured, even if I have been fortunate to have escaped other treatments or outcomes. It spoke to the humbling fragility of the human body, and the fact that, as physicians, unknowns simply come with the territory. All three of those doctors knew that I did not choose for my body to be “interesting,” “a lot to digest,” or “difficult.” So the humility and transparency in their words held even more meaning. So as I continue the dance that is this beautiful, real journey, may I remain grateful for those vulnerable, humbling, anything-but-brutal moments of honesty. And thank you to those of you who have chosen to dance alongside me throughout these years!
Photo credit: Zachary Lee Portrait
The Least Interesting Thing 