Anne SG and the Big C

Okay, this word has been bugging me since I got my diagnosis. Treatment. I can’t say I ever considered it before, but now I hate the word. It’s no wonder that the word treatment usually goes along with another word: Silent Treatment; Waster Water Treatment; Cancer Treatment. All of those associations are negative.

I have had loads and loads of “treatment” (or is it “treatments?” I don’t know). I have had surgery, chemotherapy, and, most recently, radiation. Each of these treatments (do you hate the word as much as I now do, having read it so many times?) has been an attack on my body–first the slicing and removal of part of my body, an emotionally laden and physically obvious part; then the injection via IV of poisonous chemicals that not only killed roaming cancer cells (we hope) but all other fast-growing cells, wreaking havoc on my nails, hair, and skin; and now the deliberate irradiation of my chest, all the way to my lungs–an act that has a known carcinogenic effect! Treatment is a euphemism, it seems, for partial destruction of a self. And not just the physical self.

I have struggled with my identity. I look in the mirror and don’t recognize the person there–she’s scarred, noticeably older (much more so than the 11 months I’ve aged since I found THE LUMP), and gray. What hair has grown in is short and incredibly curly–something I always dreamed of, especially in the 80s when Big Hair was In–but now I can see why people with curly hair hate it. I’ve had my hair colored (in as natural a process as is available on the market these days) twice and still, I don’t know who that person is. She looks kind of butch, and kind of like a housewife who has let herself go. Never mind the other changes that have their effects on my identity: a move up the east coast from FL to NC; being away from the work I’ve done all of my adult life; no longer being able to take for granted my once uncommonly excellent health.

But recently a couple of comments have jarred me and made me really think. The first was at my July reconstruction surgery, when the anesthesia nurse was going over my records. My father in law was with me, and was sure to inform the nurse of my horrific allergic reaction back in April. The nurse commented on how rare Stevens Johnson syndrome was, and I joked, “yeah, the doctor said I was one in a million.” He replied: “and 1 in 5 million that you’re still with us.” I knew it was pretty serious when it happened, but I had never had anyone say that to me in such a concrete, matter of fact way. In fact, no one has been willing to give me any concrete numbers, odds, or prognosis, except my “impressively high” odds of recurrence. It’s hard to swallow.

Then yesterday, I mentioned in an email to my first grader’s teacher that I’d like to volunteer at the school as soon as my radiation treatment is finished; she replied that she was shocked to hear that I’ve been in treatment (there’s the ugly word again, twice), because I always seem so happy and fresh. That was the good kind of unexpected comment. And I realized that, well, I appear that way because I am happy, at least in part–I’m happy to be alive. I’m happy to breathe this beautiful autumn air and to be able to have an active role in my children’s lives and education once again. For some time I’d been bogged down in a nasty fog of depression when we uprooted our lives from Tampa, where we’d lived for more than twice as long as anywhere else I’ve lived since finishing school. Moving to a new city and dealing with the guilt and anxiety of putting children in a strange new school, as well as the overwhelming prospect of yet more treatment when I thought I was done, had really knocked me down.

But I realize also that things are never really what they seem, and though I look at myself and see a worn out old hag, someone else sees a healthy, happy spirit. I’m going to hold on to that for now. Instead of wishing I could get my old self back, maybe I can learn to live happily with all the changes I’ve experienced–the good and those that seem bad.