Part swearing and part meditation
In support of a cancer journey that leaves room for duality and nuance (August 13, 2022)
What I posted on August 13, 2022:
Delaney brought me back a coaster from the trip she and Jack took with their Dad.
It reads: inhale the good shit, exhale the bullshit.
And she explained that she picked it for me because it was how I approached cancer: “part meditation and part swearing.”
That’s not a bad insight for an 11-year old whose experience with my treatment started when she was seven. Although to be honest it didn’t start that way: over time I did a lot more meditation (if not much less swearing).
As I’ve been feeling better the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’ve come to believe about a cancer journey; and also what I’d like to do about it.
Delaney brought me back a coaster from the trip she and Jack took with their Dad.
It reads: inhale the good shit, exhale the bullshit.
And she explained that she picked it for me because it was how I approached cancer: “part meditation and part swearing.”
That’s not a bad insight for an 11-year old whose experience with my treatment started when she was seven. Although to be honest it didn’t start that way: over time I did a lot more meditation (if not much less swearing).
As I’ve been feeling better the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’ve come to believe about a cancer journey; and also, what I’d like to do about it.
One of the things that has come to bother me more and more is that there seem to be only two default “paths” or approaches to cancer treatment:
Warrior: wherein a patient is expected to be fierce and in fight mode; cancer is a battle to be won or lost, and the goal is to get back to normal as quickly as possible; or,
Withdrawal: tell only a few people, if anyone, about your diagnosis, for fear they might treat you differently (or simply out of desire to maintain privacy), sharing the news only after treatment is complete, if then.
Not that these aren’t valid approaches—for many people they are, and that’s probably why they’ve become so commonly adopted and expected. But the polarity of the choice has really started to bother me; in part because one thing I’ve learned is how incredibly varied and personal an individual’s cancer journey can be.
Beyond that, I worry that both approaches potentially include aspects that aren’t so conducive to healing:
Being regularly in fight mode triggers adrenaline and cortisol, which can cause inflammation—and chronic low-grade inflammation may actually contribute to cancer, cardiovascular disease, and other conditions. I’ve known patients who bristle at the idea that someone who dies of cancer has “lost their battle,” and whatever happens to me, I hope nobody ever says that about my journey. I also worry that a warrior mindset, which casts cancer as an evil enemy to be escaped as soon as possible, may not leave people as open to the learning and transformation they may get along the way: as if it’s a prison, not a school.
Seeking treatment in private, on the other hand, may end up denying patients the social support they may find they end up needing (and which is one of the data-driven factors that is cited to help patients recover against the odds). Sometimes, it also creates confusion via pattern disruption, as friends or coworkers don’t understand why behavior is changing. I am told that my holding company’s CEO, who recently went through his own treatment, was struck by how many employees reached out to tell him they had been afraid to tell their manager they had cancer—and that he now worries that when performance changes or absences are noted without an understanding of why, employees could even be at risk of being fired—especially during Covid.
As I think of my own journey, and what I would like to do next, a big part of me is motivated to address the need for a patient’s freedom to choose a path that may live somewhere along the spectrum—one where both swearing and meditation might hold a role—and on which a patient can learn how to truly live while trying not to die.
✨❤️✨
Looking back today:
I wrote this shortly after I got the first email about what ultimately became the Working with Cancer Pledge and initiative.
I didn’t know much about the effort except that its focus was on helping employees who were diagnosed with cancer, feel safter about disclosing what they were going through, so they didn’t have to add the stress of concealing or hiding to the brutal reality of treatment.
Even then, I believed there was something even bigger at stake than an absence of negative: the support that had the power to change a health outcome—the way I had experienced support changing mine.
Since then, with the opportunity to revisit the ups and downs of treatment and multiple recurrences, I can more clearly see a pattern of fear and stress negatively impacted my healing journey. Workplaces hold a responsibility to play a proactive role in reducing fear. Creating and communicating programs and policies will ensure that impacted employees feel security and stability at work, when their world is turned upside down everywhere else.
A year into this initiative, I find it hard to believe that I spent multiple therapy sessions stressing about the fact that I didn’t feel particularly pulled toward cancer advocacy. There was no part of me that felt moved to advocate for colon cancer awareness or early colonoscopies—in spite of knowing their lifesaving potential.
At the time, it felt like further proof that I wasn’t a particularly good person.
Today, I realize I just needed to be smacked in the head with it: my advocacy had started years prior, as soon as I started writing more honestly on Facebook about my experiences, and especially those having to do with work. Yet, it may never have started without an email essentially telling me I would be a part of it.
What else could fall into my lap, I’ve been wondering, if I was open to it?
In the wake of my clear scans last week, I’ve felt powerful and limitless—and thus, also terrified of what might be, should I decide it. My TikTok feed is filled with stories of manifesting: one content creator after another telling me that committing is the hardest part. And no sooner do I think about what my future vision might be than I am served a video from a familiar face—the one who decided to write a NY Times bestselling book—about how to create a vision board. (Weirdly, when I go to link it here, it’s nowhere to be found.)
Just three weeks away from the five-year goal that was this project’s start, my head is filled with possibility for what’s next. I’m not sure what it looks like yet, but I know I’d like to help fill the gap that currently exists between warrior and withdrawal. One that recognizes the brutality of a cancer journey as well as the active role both patient and community can play in healing; that acknowledges a broader definition of “winning” beyond solely surviving.
More tangibly, I’d love to have 1,000 subscribers by the time I write my last Strive For Five post on September 11th; it’s a nice round number, double the audience goal I had when I launched, and while a stretch, not impossible, especially if I think of it as a guest list for a huge celebratory party.
And I’d love to have 1,000 companies sign the Working with Cancer pledge by then, too. That’s a bigger lift, but feels even more achievable, especially knowing how many people have started to explore it at their own organization.
What else might happen if I let myself be open to it? If I believed it could happen?
What might happen if you asked of yourself the same?
My heart swells as I ask; maybe because it occurs to me that we are just at the beginning of finding out.