I seem to be reaching the end of a mercifully brief trip to Cancer Town.
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In the middle of March, I discovered a lump in my throat. Three weeks later, they confirmed that this lump was, indeed, thyroid carcinoma.
Today, I’m recovering reasonably well from a thyroidectomy that, as far as I can tell, has left me cancer-free. I have a follow-up appointment scheduled for later this week; I’ll learn more then. But from what the doctors said, both directly to me and in their written reports, my cancer was limited to that one nodule, and taking it out removed the cancer.
That’s just over three months from discovery to recovery — and most of that time was spent waiting for tests, test results, or surgery. Not long at all.
[I chronicled the journey in a series of “lumpdates” on Facebook, which I’ve collected for the record in a single blog post.]
I was never afraid, really, but that’s not because I’m courageous or strong-willed or determined. I was just lucky.
I feel this is important to say because some of the ways we talk about cancer are a problem.
Barbara Ehrenreich examines this in the opening chapter of Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America. (I wrote a review of this book, sort of, on an earlier blog, but I reposted it here, if you’re interested.)
When Ehrenreich was diagnosed with breast cancer, she tells us, she found herself surrounded by what she called a “Smile or Die” culture. Many people — well meaning, concerned, supportive people — believed that cancer could be slowed or accelerated through the patient’s outlook. To beat cancer, you need a positive attitude because to feel anger, despair, frustration — even to seek advice about how to handle such emotions — would make the cancer worse.
Smile, or die. Your choice.
Different — though, I would argue, related — is the way we use metaphors of war to talk about cancer: it’s a battle, and patients must fight. Some will be successful: they’re the cancer survivors. They didn’t give up; they didn’t surrender.
Fight, or die.
Of course, we don’t want a cancer patient to just sit around and pretend that nothing’s wrong. But we also don’t want to blame the patient for being weak or, worse, for not being committed enough.
So I repeat: I got lucky.
I’m not saying that I did nothing. As I mentioned, I never really felt afraid, even though I have lost family and friends (and, in a sense, my religion) to cancer. Several of my friends expressed surprise at how calm I was through it all — hell, I surprised myself, if I’m honest. I’ve heard lots of cancer patients talk about the kick in the gut they felt when their doctor said “the C word,” and I just assumed that would be my response in a similar situation. Perhaps I have done a better job than I realized internalizing the idea of “inviting anxiety to tea.”
But none of that had anything to do with the cancer. I simply got lucky. Thyroid cancer grows slowly, and I caught it early. I have a flexible job, and good insurance, and access to expert doctors. Their advice was clear; I just followed it.
Good luck, given the circumstances.
Photo by Alois Komenda on Unsplash