the three of us with our surgeries
and remissions: Mother’s head bare,
sister’s uterus gone, and I with only
one breast. Picture us: the American Women Gothic
posed on our porch. The pitchfork in our missing parts...
Poet Bonnie Maurer creates this portrait of a family, three women, living with cancer in the opening stanza of her poem, “It Seems We can Live with Cancer Now” (in The Cancer Poetry Project, Karin Miller, Ed.). Even though they are “clear,” or in remission, the possibility of recurrence stays with them:
During quiet conversation, when the lamp shorts out,
We will show no surprise, really…
What cancer is farming us?”
“We will show no surprise, really…” Whether we call ourselves patients, survivors, recovered or in remission we live with cancer. I live with cancer, but I recalled how, years ago, my oncologist pronounced me “cured” after my regiment of radiation and tamoxifen. Was I really cured? This past week I asked a psychologist at a local cancer center what people are told once they’ve successfully completed treatment: “In remission?’ Healed?” ‘Cured?”
“We use the phrase, ‘no evidence of disease at this time,’” he said. I wrote down the words, ‘no evidence of disease at this time.” I admit that I don’t think of the alternative to “at this time,” but I know that I share that question with other cancer survivors, the persistent shadow lurking in the wings, the one that makes an appearance during every medical procedure— mammogram, colonoscopy, CT scan or even those routine follow-ups with surgeons or oncologists. “What cancer might still be farming me?”
Is that what it means to live with cancer? With the possibility of recurrence never disappearing, whether we’re actively undergoing treatment or not; even when we’re given another reprieve in our annual checkup? We live with that nagging shadow, yes, but we also must live with hope. Hope that cures will be found; hope for our friends facing surgery, radiation or chemotherapy; hope our lives will not be cut short. Hope is what keeps us going.
Maurer’s family of women live with cancer, but like us, they also cling to hope:
As scientists listen for signals from alien worlds,
we tune our keen ears to stories of others who have lived
clear for twenty years.
What does it mean to you to live with cancer? Write about it.
Angela,
You’re giving your friend the best gift of all: listening, being available, a hand to hold when loneliness and fear overtake her, giving her the space and safety to say what she really feels– Compassion is caring. And I think the ability to listen, deeply, is something we all need most as patients, as those faced with these kinds of diagnoses. Arthur Frank’s AT THE WILL OF THE BODY, Rachel Remen’s KITCHEN TABLE WISDOM, and Anatole Broyard’s INTOXICATED BY MY ILLNESS all offer little gems of understanding and insight for anyone seeking to understand how illness affects us–what gifts we can offer as caring friends. You’re a good friend, Angela. Thank you for your post. — Sharon
Hi Sharon,
I’m not living with cancer, but one of my best friends is. She has Stage IV breast cancer. It wasn’t found, despite her faithful mammograms, because it was in the breast tissue under her arm, and apparently never in her breast at all. So, I don’t know what it is to fear for my life, but I fear for her life. We see each other often and most times – not all times – I wonder and often ask how she’s doing. She hits the 2nd anniversary of her diagnosis in a few months. She was given about 3 to 5 years to live then and, since then, her cancer has spread slightly. However, more alarming, she has already had to switch hormone-suppressing drugs. So far, no chemotherapy. I told her that, no matter what, I’d be there for her. I think I can be, but it’s scary. I’m never exactly sure what to say, but I am generous with hugs and my time. I’d welcome any suggestions you or others have about what to do, not do, say, not say.
Thanks,
Angela
P.S. Yes, living with that shadow must be awful, but also hopeful since you’re living. I admire your courage.