Teeter Totter of Life (Part II of II)
Read this first: Teeter Totter of Life (Part I of II)
When I finished my first chemo cycle I called a friend from my hospital room. She was having people over and I wanted to share my joy that chemo wasn’t all that bad. The superhotty, Orange, answered the phone and asked how I was.
“I’m doing fine,” I said.
“That’s great. Do you want to talk to Zeke?”
“Sure.”
I spoke to Zeke and a few others. They were just living their normal lives and I was living what had become mine. Getting out of the gossip loop was inevitable, considering I missed so many days of school. One of my best friends, HollaAtYoBoy, got a new girlfriend and I didn’t meet her for a month. I was spending much more time with my new "friends": my doctors, nurses and other patients. My primary nurse, Laughy, was one of my favorites. She enjoyed teasing me for being so quiet and always greeting her with a simple “hey” in my deepest voice.
I refused to hold my old friends back or complain about anything. I never said, “I’m not feeling well, come over to my house,” or “I just need someone to talk to.” Simply bringing up the subject of my troubles, mentioning it, was an act of complaining, to me. That’s a philosophy I continue to live by.
Looking back, I don’t know if I was fooling myself into thinking that certain normal human emotions and behaviors didn’t apply to me. I also don’t know that my never mentioning cancer allowed others to misinterpret what my days were like, how important milestones were, or cancer itself. But certainly that outlook aided in my feeling of invincibility. All those other cancer pussies complained about how hard it was, but I never once did, and often didn’t even think cancer was that difficult. I was better than the other patients, better than everyone, better than humankind. I was Superman.
My boycott on complaining didn’t diminish when cancer ended—actually, it became stricter. I created the ill-worded “no pussy rule” in which complaining was a sin.
My school status changed. Whereas in the past I went relatively unnoticed, now people sought me out to discuss the Redskins or wrestling. I even got asked out to homecoming. Are you asking out of pity?
Sports kept my life steady. I watched every televised NFL game and critiqued all the Redskins games, just like normal. The NFL season kept life moving, like each NFL week equaled one more cancer week I could cross off the list. No matter what went into or happened to me, I could count on football weekends.
I watched a great playoff baseball game between the New York Mets and the San Francisco Giants. In 13 innings the Mets won 3-2. After watching that game I realized everything was going to be okay; I was going to be alright. Even the stress-induced acne that had broken out across my upper body disappeared. Who would’ve thought a baseball game between two teams I don’t care about would have such an impact?
I was restricted physically, and substituted television and video games for playing backyard football. When I was aware of a neighborhood football game being played I almost didn’t want to hear about it.
I had my restaging scans after several weeks to gauge my tumor. It shrunk, as I expected. My teeter totter of life tipped back to my side a little bit, which unfortunately doesn’t happen for everybody. I had trouble understanding how some people could receive chemotherapy and it didn’t kill the cancer. I also struggled with the idea that not everybody expects perfect results. Do they actually acknowledge the possibility of death?
Continue reading "My Cancer Story": Welcome to the Good Life (Part I of II)
When I finished my first chemo cycle I called a friend from my hospital room. She was having people over and I wanted to share my joy that chemo wasn’t all that bad. The superhotty, Orange, answered the phone and asked how I was.
“I’m doing fine,” I said.
“That’s great. Do you want to talk to Zeke?”
“Sure.”
I spoke to Zeke and a few others. They were just living their normal lives and I was living what had become mine. Getting out of the gossip loop was inevitable, considering I missed so many days of school. One of my best friends, HollaAtYoBoy, got a new girlfriend and I didn’t meet her for a month. I was spending much more time with my new "friends": my doctors, nurses and other patients. My primary nurse, Laughy, was one of my favorites. She enjoyed teasing me for being so quiet and always greeting her with a simple “hey” in my deepest voice.
I refused to hold my old friends back or complain about anything. I never said, “I’m not feeling well, come over to my house,” or “I just need someone to talk to.” Simply bringing up the subject of my troubles, mentioning it, was an act of complaining, to me. That’s a philosophy I continue to live by.
Looking back, I don’t know if I was fooling myself into thinking that certain normal human emotions and behaviors didn’t apply to me. I also don’t know that my never mentioning cancer allowed others to misinterpret what my days were like, how important milestones were, or cancer itself. But certainly that outlook aided in my feeling of invincibility. All those other cancer pussies complained about how hard it was, but I never once did, and often didn’t even think cancer was that difficult. I was better than the other patients, better than everyone, better than humankind. I was Superman.
My boycott on complaining didn’t diminish when cancer ended—actually, it became stricter. I created the ill-worded “no pussy rule” in which complaining was a sin.
My school status changed. Whereas in the past I went relatively unnoticed, now people sought me out to discuss the Redskins or wrestling. I even got asked out to homecoming. Are you asking out of pity?
Sports kept my life steady. I watched every televised NFL game and critiqued all the Redskins games, just like normal. The NFL season kept life moving, like each NFL week equaled one more cancer week I could cross off the list. No matter what went into or happened to me, I could count on football weekends.
I watched a great playoff baseball game between the New York Mets and the San Francisco Giants. In 13 innings the Mets won 3-2. After watching that game I realized everything was going to be okay; I was going to be alright. Even the stress-induced acne that had broken out across my upper body disappeared. Who would’ve thought a baseball game between two teams I don’t care about would have such an impact?
I was restricted physically, and substituted television and video games for playing backyard football. When I was aware of a neighborhood football game being played I almost didn’t want to hear about it.
I had my restaging scans after several weeks to gauge my tumor. It shrunk, as I expected. My teeter totter of life tipped back to my side a little bit, which unfortunately doesn’t happen for everybody. I had trouble understanding how some people could receive chemotherapy and it didn’t kill the cancer. I also struggled with the idea that not everybody expects perfect results. Do they actually acknowledge the possibility of death?
Continue reading "My Cancer Story": Welcome to the Good Life (Part I of II)