It’s hard to believe it’s now been more than seven months since I was first told I have lung cancer. Following surgery, chemotherapy, and now targeted therapy, I’m not even certain if it’s true any longer, but whether there is active cancer in my body at this very moment or not, I will forever be a cancer patient, for the rest of my life.

Along the way, however, I’ve learned there are many, many words attributed to cancer patients – and none of them fit quite right, like shards of glass you can’t fit together.

What You Call Cancer Patients

We see it all the time in articles, greeting cards, even obituaries. Different words ascribed to cancer patients, words meant to offer comfort and support. Though different messages, notes, comments, and discussions, all of these words have been ascribed to me…

Smart – Courageous – Resilient – Caring
Stoic – Tough – Survivor – Fighter – Tenacious
Real – Honest – Vulnerable – Inspiring – Brave

Some I agree with, others I don’t understand at all.

Smart? Perhaps – it depends on how you’re defining smart. I understand the high level biology of what is affecting me and how my body is reacting, so there’s intelligence behind that. I’ve also tried to be “smart” about being sure to schedule procedures, follow through on appointments, and advocate for myself throughout the process. With so much at stake, it would be stupid not to.

Courageous, fighter, tough, stoic, brave… I don’t see these at all. None of this is a choice I’ve made, and I have no choice in how to proceed. Not realistically – of course I could choose to stop treatment, avoid some medications, and perhaps cancel some appointments or scans. But is that really a choice? Considering the stakes – nothing less than my very life – there is no choice.

Resilient and tenacious… I don’t know about these either. I suppose, as I keep going. But again, what choice do I have? Keep coming back for more – whether it’s treatment, pain, side effects, anxiety – because there’s no other path forward.

Real and honest. Okay, these I can agree with, because I can’t be anything different or anything less. Life is already too complicated and convoluted to be anything but. This doesn’t just apply to cancer, but to everything, in everyday. It isn’t easy, though – one has to be brutally, bluntly real and honest with oneself, and that isn’t always easy or pleasant.

Inspiring. Well, I hope this word might apply, that someone else struggling with a similar diagnosis might read my meager writings and take some hope or comfort back into their lives and their own struggle. In that, the word caring may also apply.

Vulnerable. Oh yes. Defined as “susceptible to physical or emotional damage or hurt” – there’s no word realistically more true than this one in my day-to-day. Every part of me, every moment, is vulnerable, in ways I never thought possible.

Finally, I’ve been called a survivor. I honestly don’t know how to interpret this one, because from my perspective, you don’t survive cancer. To survive is defined as to outlive, in essence, to beat. There’s no beating this disease. Oh, it may not be active, and in time, I hope it will recede enough that it no longer infringes on daily life and activities with the vengeance it now has. But it will most certainly accompany me to the grave, whenever and however that may happen.

This is not negative, or morose, or defeatist. It’s realistic. Any cancer patient can tell you – it always comes back. Hopefully not in the physical, but it will always be in your mind, your heart, your fears.

The Real Words I Am

As a writer, words are my profession and my trade. I can list dozens of words that describe how I truly feel and what I truly am, at this moment, in the dark of night, in the early quiet hours of morning, during the hectic days of work, chores, and commitments.

Lost – Isolated – Alone
Hurt – Frightened – Scared
Apart – Frustrated – Angry

I get that this sounds self-pitying and whingy, and I hate that it does. But it is also true.

Every new ache or pain is a new fear, every side effect is potentially a symptom. And each of those side effects must be dealt with in their own way, creating more intrusions into a life already so bruised and broken.

For example, the targeted therapy I’m now on creates skin problems, which require a medicated gel, mediated lotion, and extra precautions against sun exposure. This then regulates the type of clothing I may wear, or the daily activities I can do to ensure I am protected. It dictates how hot a shower may be, or what soaps or lotions I may use. Furthermore, all delicate skin is impacted, so I’m also more susceptible to bloody noses, cracked skin, deeper skin splits, and rashes – all of which I’ve been experiencing.

I completely understand that my situation could be far worse, and I do feel blessed and grateful to be in the situation that I am. But that doesn’t mean my situation is entirely pleasant or there aren’t daily issues I have to work around.

Bathroom issues – I can’t go too far some days or I might really regret the resulting mess. Eyesight issues – my prescription no longer works, my near vision is damaged, and I’m now severely light-sensitive. Diet issues – Some favorite foods must be severely moderated or the aforementioned bathroom issues will be even worse. Joint issues – pain and stiffness that exacerbates my existing osteoarthritis. Pain issues – ribcage stiffness and numbness that means I’m still sleeping in a recliner more than six months post-lobectomy. Sleep issues – that recliner isn’t as comfortable as one would imagine for refreshing sleep. Concentration issues – there goes my work productivity yet again.

Breathing issues, temperature issues, appetite issues, anxiety issues, hearing issues – all are part of what is now my daily existence. I can’t help but go back to just under one year ago, before this all began, when I felt fine. A little cough, but I felt fine.

Courageous? Fighter? Inspiring? I’d give it all back to be a lot more boring. Maybe in time, any words can become boring once again.