The term Cancer Survivor makes me cringe. I’ve never been shy about having had cancer, or having survived it, per se, but I tend to toss it into the conversation, seemingly carelessly, and then skimming over it. The awe in people’s voices is too heavy for the reality of how I turned out after this trial of fire.
“You fought it!”
“You got through it!”
“Kudos to you!”
Yeah, I get that a lot. And I don’t handle it well. I make some hollow joke and change the subject, or I do a deep dive into how unheroic I truly was.
It’s hard to overstate how grumpy and unpleasant I was. I snapped at the doctor who suggested that I might want to freeze my eggs, I rolled my eyes at the nurses who told me God loves me, and I didn’t let my father turn on the air conditioner in Vellore because I was cold, but the hospital blankets felt like coir on my skin.
Of course it was excused, and justified. People were kind, and loved me a lot more than I deserved. They found ways to laugh about it, like it was endearing. And then the pity, or sympathy, would creep into their voice.
A few days ago, my mother and I were having a lesson planning meeting. We’re pretty average as far as being mother and daughter goes, but we’re amazing co-educators. We create and run a program for early adolescents, to develop their critical thinking, social awareness and general skills for being a well-adjusted person.
“I guess that could explain why I don’t enjoy hard, crunchy foods.”
I spend a lot of time thinking about the flavours and textures that I enjoy and dislike. A couple of years ago, in a post-surgery complication, I couldn’t eat actual food for three weeks. Your palette resets when you go that long without eating. Taste preferences are fascinating. I enjoy spicy things now, and have stopped eating several things because they’re “too sweet.” As a child, I genuinely did not understand what “too much sweet” could taste like.
My mother smirked. “Oh and you don’t get angry, ever?” Of all the people who have dealt with me, my mother has the most reason to smirk.
“Well, actually, no. I get irritated a lot. Irritation and anger-”
“Are hugely different. You’re right.”
“Yeah, I’m constantly irritated, but anger isn’t something I experience much.”
“You’ve always been that way. Even when you were a child. You had your moments, but there’s always been something deeply - I don’t want to say soft, because you’re not a pushover- but gentle, and non-aggressive about you and how you deal with everyone.”
I don’t entirely believe her, the weight of that compliment is heavy as the awe that accompanies being a Cancer survivor. I have my moments, but I know I know that the reality isn’t actually quite so flattering. I’m non-aggressive, but I can be deeply unkind about and to people. I don’t get angry, but it comes from a deep place of apathy.
I’m not sure yet what to make of that. Being angry takes so much more energy than being irritated. And the process of surviving cancer, from the diagnosis to the surgery, to more elaborate diagnoses and chemotherapy, and recovery, and psychiatric therapy didn’t give me this new lease on life, or unlock a fighter inside me. It just got me to a place of apathy.
I used to think the humour of the dog meme was about how delusional he was- how delusional we have to be, to deal with everything being on fire. I think the whole cancer debacle taught me that the wisdom of the meme is in accepting that things being on fire is in fact what fine sometimes looks like.
Today, I’m grateful for irritation. It’s a gentler, kinder emotion than anger. I’m grateful for people who loved me despite how irritable I can be. And I’m grateful that I can articulate the difference between irritation and anger.
