Chapter 2: Cancer christmas

 

Chapter 2: cancer Christmas

              A few weeks after initial surgery and diagnosis in October 2020 I can only describe as cancer Christmas. My apartment was boisterous and full of guests. Friends who had become like family prior. Packages seemed to arrive almost daily. Phone calls from people wanting to visit. A meal train was started so that food would be delivered to my home. Then a go-fund-me so that I wouldn’t need to worry about money. My friends visiting—Kyle, Micah—became something of schedulers for  all further visitation. It was nice not to have to worry about it all.

              I think that at some point, we all wonder what our own funeral will look like. How many people will come? Who will cry? What kind of things will be said? Will I become a gaping hole in others’ lives? Selfishly hoping that the answer may be “yes.” As far as I could tell, these few weeks following initial diagnosis were basically like attending one’s own funeral. Somewhere in the absurdity of the whole situation, certain social norms fell to the wayside. There was no longer time to skirt the truth or to dwell on hypotheticals. We spoke our hearts, wore emotions on the sleeve. I couldn’t help but think that I wished I had been doing this all along. It was a gift of sorts in itself: clarity and a sense of true belonging.

I spent the evenings on the phone with friends or family. I shared my favorite memories, the things that I had kept hidden. I made my soul more visible. It was both cathartic and painful. In a sense, I was looking for elements of closure, but the reality of why I was looking for closure was palpably painful. It was as though I was shutting doors, one after the other, telling myself that there was no path back. This was a permanent change. It wasn’t something I could run from. I couldn’t think myself out of this one. If I were ever left completely on my own, I would certainly be helpless. And with that help perhaps I could slow the inevitable. I was still looking back on closed doors, without a clear path forward.

It was difficult to accept just how much my life had changed. I felt as though I had acquired an expiration date. I had always lived planning for the future. I worked hard to get into medical school, now residency. I had plans to go into kidney medicine and eventually move back to Washington, buy a house, get settled. I had a dream of owning a house with a big yard and growing a beautiful garden. I was going to have several dogs. I was going to become fluent in Japanese. There was always something to plan for, or to look forward to. Now, planning for the future seemed naïve. Exactly what future was I planning for? It was a huge shift in priorities. Early after surgery there were moments when it felt as though the cancer had stolen my sense of self. In a matter of days it became the defining feature of who I am. For something that takes so much, it felt like a cruel finale to take also my sense of self.

People would ask me how I was feeling. It felt like a loaded question as though there were a correct response. What was I supposed to say? Was this an invitation to release the flood-gates, to let loose an internal turmoil? Or was this an invitation to apply my mask? To have people believe that I was doing OK despite all of the circumstances. To trick people into thinking that things would somehow work out in the end? A treatment more for them than for me. Why did I feel like the emotional well-being of everyone around me was my responsibility. And all at the expense of a very limited reserve. Was I supposed to be a sort of example for humanity? Some sort of rooted good stark white against a background of evil darkness? It was a burden I didn’t ask for, but it’s a role I can assume…. A choice.

              Days later, more bad news. I met with the neuro-oncologist and learned that the molecular markers of my particular tumor were unfavorable. This meant a poorer response to therapy and overall decreased survival time. Briefly, I was devastated. I began to believe in things such as fate or destiny or fairness. I thought that certainly, with all of the bad news I had received the prior weeks—I was destined to hear something favorable. No such luck.