Cancer as Invitation

If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Barbara Ellen McMahon, author of the novella, Mrs. Rochester. It’s a sequel to Jane Eyre. This time, it’s Jane who’s locked in the attic and there’s a new governess. It’s available on Kobo, where it’s been getting rave reviews. If you enjoy my writing here, chances are you’ll love Mrs. Rochester.

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Facebook reminded me recently that it’s been three years since my lumpectomy. And the memories came roaring back.

Friends picked us up really early that morning and drove us to the hospital. They wished us luck as we got out of the car. I needed a wheelchair to get up to Day Surgery. My surgeon had told me not to take my morning pain meds. She didn’t want them interacting with whatever I’d be given there. So I was really sore. We checked in and were sent to the nether regions of the hospital for my dye injection and scan. For those who don’t know, before a lumpectomy, your breast is injected with blue dye so that they can see which lymph nodes are first in line. The surgeon removes those in hopes of keeping the cancer from spreading.

The technician was a big linebacker of a man. Straightforward and gentle. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “This is going to hurt like hell. But it won’t last.” And he was right. On both counts. Tears leaked out of my eyes and then it was done and “You did really well.” Then I had to lie completely still for twenty minutes as the machine whirred and grumbled around me. “It’ll get really close to your face, but don’t worry. It won’t hit you.” And it did and it didn’t.

Getting up was a bitch. The table was hard and I have arthritis in my spine. “Need help?” he asked, offering his hand, his arm. Such kindness in the midst of confusion and fear and pain. He seemed embarrassed by my thanks.

Then we were back to Day Surgery and it was good I was in the wheelchair. I don’t think I could have walked through those doors.

“Oh, I don’t want to do this,” I said to Alan, beginning to panic.

“I know,” he said quietly and pushed me through.

After I had changed and was lying in my bed, I saw a nurse hanging IV bags on a central pole, getting them ready to go to individual patients. Grouped together like that, they looked like some kind of weird balloon bouquet. Deeply medical, yet strangely festive.

In the years since that day, I’ve discovered that talking about my experiences makes some people uncomfortable. Like, you only had a little bit of cancer, Barbara, why are you making such a big deal about it? Or, you had cancer, sure, but it was the good kind, so please stop going on about it. It’s not like you’re having continuing drug therapy and need follow-ups every six months. Oh. Wait.

The whole thing seems unreal to me. Like it didn’t really happen. Or maybe it did happen but I got off so lightly compared to what other people have gone through, I don’t really know how to process it. Every so often I give it a little poke and know that no, I’m not over it and no, I may never be.

I feel like I don’t really belong in the cancer club and yet, I am still living with cancer’s threat. I just don’t feel as entitled to support as I might if I’d had the bad kind.

In my follow-ups, I’m told that everything’s fine. The thing that showed up on the scan is nothing to worry about but we’ll keep an eye on it.

So which is it? How can you keep an eye on something that’s nothing? If you’re keeping an eye on it, doesn’t that mean it’s something? You can’t keep an eye on nothing. I’m an English major, dammit! I know things!

I try to enjoy my life as it is now, as much as I possibly can. I can’t count on my RA treatment holding until the next round. I can’t count on not finding myself back in Cancerland.

But I’ve got my hobbies, my writing and art-making. I get together with friends when I can. All of which should continue, even if the pain gets worse or the cancer comes back. This will keep me going, past the pot-holes and the snack-stealers. It will shelter me from the toxic positivity merchants and the wellness gurus who have no idea what it is to be sick but still rush up from the roadside ditches, clamouring for my attention and trying to sell me their flimsy wares.

Having cancer should change your life. Otherwise, what’s the point of having it? I’ve written that life is not like a novel. In a novel, everything has a reason for being there, but life is essentially pointless and random. Any decent editor would say, no, you can’t just get cancer and then leave it behind.

And the thought occurs only now — what if I am the editor? I can’t make myself not have had cancer. So maybe I need to seat it in my life. Find a way to make it make some sense, weave in the loose ends. What a responsibility, eh? Not to be undertaken in the midst of it. I needed some distance to even begin to try.

I am starting to look on it as at least a bit of a triumph. Like, I’ve seen off cancer, I can see off… any random frustration that tries to get me down. It can be a wake up call if I let it be. It can change the course of my life if I let it.

I’ve been viewing it as a bully, as another iteration of the bullies that made my childhood such a misery and that just makes me want to run and hide. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s more of a teacher than a bully.

Or maybe it’s just an invitation. Maybe it’s saying “Look! Do you like what you see or do you maybe want to change it?”

Cancer as invitation. I could almost work with that. If you’re living with cancer, or its aftermath, take it whatever way works for you. I only share my experience so you know you’re not alone.

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Don’t forget, my book, Mrs. Rochester, is available on Kobo. Your purchase helps to support an independent author.