You came to me, uninvited, like a stealthy intruder in the dark night. I don’t know when you arrived, and started hiding in the walls of my body, taking up more and more space. At some point, you started to give me little signs that you, or maybe something else, was there, but the signs were too vague. Finally, you gave me a sign that I couldn’t ignore, and I called for help. It took awhile to find the right person to remove you from my body, but with skill and modern technology, we got you out.
I recognize that by coming to visit me, you brought me many important gifts. You taught me to appreciate all that I have – my family and friends, the place in the world that I live, the food that I eat, so much. You taught me to truly appreciate it and value it, when I was afraid I would lose it all.
You taught me that it is important, above all, to take care of myself. You gave me a wake up call. That I can’t ignore my health. You also gave me permission to take the time that I need to do that. I know that even if I duck out on my kids during homework time to go for a yoga class that that is all right. I am trying to make sure they have a mother. (And it is better for them to try to figure out their homework on their own anyway.) That if I leave work promptly at 5:00, when my colleagues are still sitting at their desks, who cares? They are not, for the most part, going to be holding my hand if you ever come to visit me again. (I’d like to tell them that they should go and take care of themselves too, but I don’t want to be known in my work place as not only the one who leaves early but the “Crazy Cancer Lady” too.)
You taught me not to put things off. We are not guaranteed a “tomorrow”. We only have today. So, if we want to do something – whether it is to travel, or hug our children, or write a book, or plant a tree, or take up dance, we’ve got to do it now. (Of course, there are some practical considerations – of work and time and money – but within reason.)
You taught me what is truly important in life. And what is really not.
If only we could all know this without you having to visit us. If only we could live by what we know.
So, thank you, thank you for your many gifts.
But.
You also stole a lot away from me, you dirty, rotten thief. You threatened to take me away from my children, leaving them without a mother to raise them and nurture them. To take me away from my husband and leave him companionless. To take away my parents’ only remaining child when I should be taking care of them. That, Dear Cancer, (in the words of my favourite Glee characters) was not cool.
You took from me a sense of feeling confident about my health. When I wouldn’t get something that I wanted, or thought I wanted, like a job promotion, I would think, “Well, at least I am healthy.” I don’t tell myself that anymore.
You have taken time away from me. Not just the hours that I spend waiting to see doctors and taking tests. But time that I spend worrying and being fearful and not present.
If I let you, you will take my sense of peace, even my sanity. I can’t let you do that.
So, good-bye. Good-bye, dear Cancer. I’m saying good-bye. I’m done with you. I’m letting you go. I am going to try to make sure you can never come back. I know we like a lot of the same things, like sugar. I will try my best not to have much of that around to tempt you back in (though I can't seem to end my lifetime love affair with chocolate). But there are other things that I know you don’t like that I do like – like kale and dancing and yoga and meditation and swimming. I’ll try to have a lot of that so that you can’t get in.
I am done with you, too, Fear. I want you to loosen your death-grip around my neck. I’m bringing out the pliers. You’re toast.
I can do it – with a little love and a lot of kale, I have a fighting chance.
