Melissa, Cheryl and Me

Lots of folks have breast cancer. Some famous women also, like musicians Sheryl Crow and Melissa Ethridge. Sheryl was on the Today show this morning. She said it is in both catastrophic events and everyday little events that we find who we are. She was diagnosed in February (a month before me) and had treatment similar to me. She took it easy for a while, she said, and now she’s ready to go on a summer tour.

Being diagnosed with cancer was not on my shortlist of things to attempt during 2006 but here it is and it has really presented me with a whole new challenge and that is to stop everything that I'm used to doing and to really show up for myself.

Melissa Ethridge’s cancer was not caught as early and she went through chemotherapy, which caused her to lose her hair. Her "Lucky" cd is a staple in my car's cd changer, and I listen to her song "Breathe" during treatment. "Lucky" was released in February of 2004; Melissa was diagnosed with cancer in October of that same year. Here's what she says about Sheryl being diagnosed:

Everyone has their own relationship to their cancer. You will walk your own path and make your own choices, and she's in that right now.

The point is that even those with the same disease do not have the same experience of the illness. Even for those whose treatments are similar, the reactions may be very different. And yet most of us seem to have crummy moments, disappointing times, introspective instances, and optimistic glimpses. The fact that I’m optimistic by nature does not mean that I (or Cheryl, according to her website) do not have negative feelings about our disease, our treatment, our situation. My therapist reminds me that the negative feelings aren’t necessarily bad to have. Suppressing those feelings however, can be dangerous. So I try to acknowledge, allow myself to experience them and, at some point, when I’m ready, move on.

The other day, a well-meaning survivor asked how I was doing. When I shared how gross my skin had become she immediately said, "At least you didn’t have chemotherapy; at least you still have your hair." While this is true, I don’t find it helpful to minimize my diagnosis and treatment as some sort of "cancer lite." My therapist helped me come up with a more helpful response than the one I had, which was a deer-in-the-headlights kind of stare. Next time, I’ll try something like, "It’s true that everyone’s experience of cancer is different."

Suzanne Strempek Shea’s book Songs from a Lead-Lined Room has been very helpful because when she feels crappy, she says so, unapologetically. She’s pretty candid with those who respond to her pain by trying to cheer her up and those who tell her to adopt a positive attitude. So a friend of hers bought her a doormat that reads, GO AWAY. Did I mention she has a fierce sense of humor also and obviously attracts friends with similar biting wit?

You want someone to be on the same plane, to nod along with you, and you don’t care if they’re doing it just to be kind. Validation is all you want. That what you feel–what you fear, what you hope–is genuine and real for you. Whether or not it makes sense to anyone else.

I've come to understand that there are those who simply don’t think any negative feelings are appropriate and will try to convert you to their way of thinking. Instead of acknowledging that "Cancer stinks!" or "It must be hard," they’ll try to change your point of view. Some change the subject to something more positive. I’ve probably done this to others. In attempts to put yourself at ease, not wanting to deal with a difficult subject (like politics around the dinner table), you divert attention and quickly change the subject. Or to try to put a sick person at ease, you point out how much worse it could be.

A friend of Suzanne’s told her we have a choice between feeling what we feel or trying to live as a plaster saint. For me, what plaster did exist has all been chipped away.