People aren’t cruel. Sometimes, they’re just a bit stupid.When
you’re first diagnosed, some people will cry and fiercely grab hold of
your elbows (it’s always the elbows). Others will become the suburban
Florence Nightingale and decide they’re your “special cancer buddy”,
when it’s really just about gaining cred. These people aren’t mean.
They just don’t know any better. Which is why you need to...
...use your cancer dog whistle.This is a fantastic tool all cancer
sufferers will deploy, whether they know it or not. You’ll use phrases,
relate anecdotes and answer questions in the same language you
want to come back at you. Whether that’s raw profanity or spiritually
enlightened positivity, you’ll quickly weed out the people who aren’t
on your page. Those who can’t cope will back right off, while your
people will hunker down for the long haul.
Now is not the time for kale.Look. Your body is trying to kill you,
and you’re taking medicine that’s trying to kill your body. It’s not the
time to become a spirulina-lovinggoop-reader. You’ll have plenty of
time to balance out your diet, so for now, live on chips and Coke and
whatever else your chemo appetite will allowyou to not regurgitate.
Humiliation is in the eye of the beholder.Regardless of your own
special brand of cancer, there’ll be plenty of moments that make
you cringe, like when a nurse slathers your nether-regions inVaseline, then wraps you up in cling film like a roast chook. Guess
what? You control what feels awkward. If you radiate shame, or
embarrassment, or any other bullshit emotion, folks around you
will pick up on it. Owning your treatment and the compromising
positions it puts you in will chill everyone out, including you.
You’ve been gifted the mother of all excuses. This is a miraculous
revelation. You literally never have to do anything, or go anywhere,
ever again. It’s brilliant. Texts remain unanswered. Birthday drinks
unvisited. Act like a jerk and no one can do a thing about it.
Hospital is not a bad place. In hospital, you’re treated like a duchess.
You’re cooked for; cleaned up after; you watch TV all day; and people
send you nice things. It’s kind of like being at a spa retreat, but with
much better drugs.
There’s no clinical benefit to pain. A nurse told me this as she
plunged a magnum of morphine into my stomach. She was right:
there’s no prize for ‘toughing it out’. Your job is to muck yourself up
with cancer treatment, which means you can also muck yourself
up with clinically prescribed opioids. It's your time to shine.
Yes, everyone’s sick of talking about it. They’ll say they aren’t,
but they are SO BORED of your cancer chat. Try and remember
to throw the odd question about their lives into conversation.
While they answer, you’ll have time to think of your next hilarious
cancer anecdote.
Grief hides in plain sight. It’s a sneaky bugger. It’ll get you when
you’re folding your kid’s socks and you remember you’re not having
any more children, ever. And then you’re crying in the bedroom and
shaking your proverbial fist at the unfairness of it all. It’s OK. Do it;
let the pain lift you up like a wave, then watch it pass on by.
Perspective doesn’t last. You’ll be draped in a Magic Cancer Cloak
from the moment you’re diagnosed, so wrap up tight. It provides you
with a second sight that blasts through 21st-century middle-class
bullshit and shows you what’s important. This is a cheat’s shortcut to
spiritual enlightenment, and you’ve got it! Relish it as it reveals what
truly matters: family, love and spring sunshine on your face.a few things people
with cancer know
FROM WEEDING OUT PHONIES TO
HAVING A FOOLPROOF EXCUSE.Wor d s Ella Ward
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